The Lion and the Mouse
by fadi25402702
Summary: Slash M/M. Emotions are useless, petty things that make you weak. So what will happen when Peeta Mellark, a docile boy who only knows how to communicate with emotion, meets Cato, a boy that traps his emotions deep inside? WARNING WARNING: M/M mature content. And they will not start to like each other from the beginning, trust me.
1. The Tribute Harvesting

**First and foremost, I do not own any amount of _The Hunger Games_. Now that we got that out of the way, this is my first _Hunger Games _fan fiction and I dedicate it to catOTPeeta. They have inspired me! Don't expect any lovey-dovey stuff in the first few chapter, either. You don't just randomly fall in love at first sight. But anyways, I hope you enjoy my story, and thank you so much for reviewing!**

* * *

The Lion and the Mouse

It's early morning in tiny, neglected District 12. The sun is already far deep in the sky, shining its gleaming rays upon the district's grim atmosphere.

A particular bakery, the only one in the district, lazily goes about the morning routine. Although being open for just two hours, it will close soon, along with all the other shops in the district. It's the reaping day, and all must attend.

Inside the bakery, three family members mill around completing the daily tasks. Strung on the ceiling, the light bulbs, which are miraculously functional, cast a fuzzy glow. And on top of that, flour covers the floors and surfaces in soft splotches, giving everything a grainy look and texture.

The youngest of the family, a soft-spoken, golden-haired boy, wipes the bakery's sandy counter with a small cloth, deep in thought. The soft light reflects brilliantly from his blonde hair, almost incandescent. A surly woman, his mother, walks into the room from the kitchen. Her cynical eyes catch him absentmindedly swiping the counter, his sight trained on nothing in particular.

"Peeta Mellark!" She shouts at the innocent boy, catching him off guard and causing him to jump in surprise.

"Y—yes, mother…?" He apprehensively asks, his thoughts cut off.

"What are you doing still wiping the counter?" Her shrill voice makes him flinch and shut his eyes momentarily, and then he tentatively opens them to peek into his mother's fiery ones. "You should be getting ready for the reaping!" She screeches at him, clutching his ear and yanking him through the swinging door and into the dimly lit kitchen.

Inside, she manhandles him all the way to the stairs that lead to the rooms the family members sleep in, crossing Peeta's father who had his back turned away from them, tending to the malfunctioning oven.

"Go up there, and get ready in no more than five minutes!" She warns, a scolding finger held close to his face, her eyes ablaze with fury.

"Y—yes, mother." Peeta whimpers, his hand nursing his ear, eyes slightly teary.

"Go!" She shrieks, her swollen hands at her waist are balled into fists. "Before I get out the rolling pin!" She menacingly says. This makes Peeta scurry up the stairs frightened. The last time she got out the rolling pin, he had that mark for a week…

* * *

Within the safety of the warm room he shares with his brothers, they are at the coal mines and will meet their family at the reaping, Peeta picks out the reaping clothes he's been wearing for the past few years. They're hand-me-downs from his father, a pair of rough pants and a wrinkled, white collared shirt. Peeta overhears his parents talking while changing into his reaping clothes.

"Ruthanne," He hears his father's muffled voice from in front of the oven calmly get his wife's attention. Peeta strains his ears to hear her wiping her floury hands on her apron furiously.

"What is it, Henry?" She rudely snaps at him, grouchy. The bakery's kitchen can heat up to the 90s, and it being a quite sultry day, no wonder she's irritable.

Henry lightly sighs and continues tenderly speaking. "You could've been a bit…softer with the boy. He's a kid and it's the reaping day, he probably has a lot on his mind."

Peeta could almost feel the fierce look of incredulity his mother gave to the man. He could almost feel the sharp, prickly sensation of her eyes narrowing in distaste.

"A bit softer?" She raises her voice, now their conversation comes as clear as day to Peeta as he pulls his reaping shirt on. "That boy deserves no softness from me!" She yells. "The good-for-nothing can't do a single thing right!" The sound of a metal whisk rattling against a counter as his mother bangs her fist onto something startles Peeta.

"Now, Ruthanne, would you please calm down." The baker attempts to mollify the furious woman.

"Henry, that boy needs to be taught a lesson. Do you honestly think being 'softer' is going to help?" She says, pointing a hand towards the room Peeta is in.

"What I think is beating him for everything isn't going to make him feel any better, that's all." Henry says defensively.

Peeta could actually sense the heat emanating from his mother at this comment.

"That boy needs some discipline!" She yells, her ire growing rapidly. "He's a lazy, worthless loafer and you know it!"

"That _boy_ is our son!" Henry's voice escalates, only adding fuel to his wife's blazing inferno. "And you cannot '_discipline_' him to tears!" He shouts. Ruthanne's eyes are wide with shock, her fists in balls, she's going to snap. Peeta's father continues, "Three days ago, you made him bleed with that rolling pin of yours for burning bread!" His voice now reverberates through Peeta's room, forcing him to shield his ears from his parents' quarrel with no luck. He sits on the ground, his knees too his chest.

"I-did-no-such-thing!" His mother screams back with infuriated eyes, emphasizing every single syllable.

"Do you even _look_ at your boy with anything other than dislike?" He yells at her.

"Don't you talk to me that way, Henry!" She yells back menacingly, but it does nothing to frighten her husband. Peeta hears through his hands his father stepping a foot closer to her. He hears the scraping of the same metal whisk against the counter, as if someone has picked it up. He hears a bump against the kitchen counter as if somebody has pushed themself into it, backing away from something.

"Don't come an inch closer, Henry!" He hears his mother says fiercely, but there is desperation evident in her voice.

The whisk shakes in Ruthanne's hands, her eyes are now are filled with fear. "I don't know what has possessed you, but you need to stop!" She yelps, her voice faltering. The blazing inferno inside her withering away. "Stop it now!"

Peeta is at the brink of tears, but he's learned how to fight them back. This isn't the first brawl his parents have gotten into.

His father lets out an exasperated sigh, pained and drawn out. His mother lowers the whisk, the once irate fire within her doused, and Henry lets his body slacken. The room falls unnervingly quiet. Peeta feels the tense atmosphere in the kitchen finally loosen somewhat, although it doesn't completely relax. It still feels strained, in a way.

The boy, grasping the opportunity, shakily opens the door of his room at the head of the stairs and speechlessly walks down the wooden steps. He's met with a blank stare from his parents; his father is feet away from his mother, who is backed up to the counter, a whisk at her side. A few moments pass without a word, the air tangibly getting tenser and tenser with every second.

"…Are you ready, Peeta?" His father gently asks him, breaking the thick silence. The young boy indiscernibly nods while looking down at the ground, if you haven't been training your eyes upon him for centuries, as it seems his father has, you would have never noticed it.

"Okay…just let your mother and I get dressed and we'll meet you outside." His father says to him.

He noiselessly walks away from his parents, who awkwardly watch him leave.

* * *

Outside, Peeta wearily sighs, tired. The sun beats its rays on the citizens of District 12, radiating an intense heat that harshly gleams from every soot-covered surface of the district. Peeta observes a large amount of people are walking down the street he sees. They're walking towards the middle of the plaza, the town square. He sits down on the doorsteps to the bakery.

People of all sizes amble along the cobblestone path, all wearing decent clothes they wouldn't wear in any other occasion. There walks by Gale Hawthorne with his brothers and mom. They all seem so inseparable. So…close. A family.

The blonde boy couldn't help but yearn for a family like that. For a place where he's welcome, where he belongs…

His mother opens the door, strangely quiet, his father following. Henry switches the "open" sign hung on the door backwards to the "closed" portion then gestures for Peeta and Ruthanne to move.

They comply and walk steadily towards the center of gravitation, where all the citizens of District 12 seem to be pulled into by some eerie force.

As they walk, Peeta couldn't help but think about how many times his name would be in the drawing. He's sixteen, and if your name gets put in first when you're twelve and it accumulates every year, then his name would at least have to be put in five times. But there was that time a few years ago he put his name in twice or thrice deliberately, to get some needed tesserae. The bakery would have gone bankrupt without it.

So what was it? Seven? Eight? What does it even matter? His name is at most eight out of thousands of other people to be reaped. He felt more anxiety for his brothers. _Their_ names has been put in for tesserae Peeta doesn't even remember anymore how many times.

* * *

The town square slowly fills with District 12's denizens. Soon, at around what the square's clock says to be two, the area reaches its capacity, and people start to crowd around each other, filling every gap possible. The space, or whatever is left it, becomes claustrophobic and sultry from the combined body heats in the mid-afternoon sun. With the square becomes packed, the event takes place. Peeta is separated from his parents to be put in the section for the kids that will be reaped. Or a more appropriate name is: the section for the kids that will be sent for their death.

Sandwiched between his brothers, who have just arrived, Peeta feels overheated. He desperately pulls up his shirt sleeves and loosens his collar, sweat glistening off his forehead.

"God, it's hot out here." His second brother says over the mayor's lengthy speech, picking at his shirt buttons as well.

The stage set in front of the justice building in the square is large and takes up too much space for just a few people, Peeta thinks. There's only Mayor Undersee, who stands at the microphone giving his languishing speech; the only victor of the Hunger Games alive to this day in District 12, Haymitch Abernathy; and a quite distractingly colorful decorative object beside the chairs put out for the two tributes. Wait, no. Peeta reexamines the tasteless object and notices a flashy grin and two eager eyes.

It's Effie Trinket…sporting a new look. Again.

For this year, her hair is dyed a harsh tint of pink. The harshest imaginable. And the clothes she wears reflect upon her uncannily earnest expression. A vivid spring green.

Although his eyes ache after a few moments of looking at her, Peeta couldn't pry them away from the brightly contrasting colors. Perplexed on the Capitol's citizens' strange traditions, he wonders if it's a fashion statement, or a trick to keep people's eyes upon them for as long as possible. It's probably both.

Before the lost-in-thought boy could even tell the mayor ended his speech, the iridescent figure his eyes were so distracted upon stands up and fervently files to the microphone, her pearly grin shining through to space and most likely blinding a few people in the square.

"Welcome, citizens!" She avidly says, her smile contrasting starkly against the grim faces that look at her bold outline. "Welcome to another reaping day that signifies the beginning of the Annual Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!"

As she gives her drawn-out prologue of the Games, most people are too distracted by the bright light she gives off than what she has to say. Some are tending to their already tired eyes. Peeta can't help but inwardly giggle at the bizarre figure giving her speech so enthusiastically.

"…And that's how the Games started." She finishes "Let's find out who the odds are in favor for this year!" She says while happily cantering over to the girls' bowl in her stiletto heels. They make such an annoying sound every time they click and clack.

"Okay…" She draws out the word as her hand hovers unnervingly close to the slips of paper. _Okay,_ Peeta repeats Effie's words in his mind. _Let's find out which one of my friends is going to die this year… _His assumptions of who it is going to be are cut short when she abruptly pulls a slip out of the bowl, and marches back to the microphone, her heels making that unpleasant beat again.

She unfurls the paper in front of her terrifyingly eager face. Ironically, the whole world falls silent now to hear the name that is about to unfortunately fall out of her intensely painted lips. No one breaths, the wind even desists its natural motion. But even though the eerie silence, their ears strain to the brink, needing to hear the name, and then they are met with it.

* * *

"Primrose Everdeen." She calls out to the crowd, as if the little girl has won an award. But no. All she has won is a death sentence.

Peeta's seen her before. She's this girl's younger twelve-year old sister, fragile and innocent; she would kill herself before killing anything in the arena.

Murmurs start to run through the crowd. Peeta hears the quiet chatter escalating.

"It's her first year." He hears a boy say to someone else and is dumbfounded. It's the tiny girl's first time in the drawing. How many tesserae did she have to add her name for to get picked?

"And she hasn't even signed up for any tesserae?" He hears a girl to the side ask incredulously, as if to answer his question. This can't be true. Her name was in once. One, singular slip of paper in that bowl. How could one out of thousands fall in between Effie's wickedly painted fingers?

He had no time to answer his own question as he sees a group of people separate; she's most likely walking through them. Walking straight to her death.

When she hesitantly paces into the open land in front of the stage, Peeta can actually see her. He can actually see the horror instilled within her deeply expressive eyes, walking over to a grinning Effie who's extending a tender, colorful hand from atop the stage, as if the terrified girl is going to launch herself into a loving embrace with her for that feigned gesture.

But she only reaches the first step to the stage when someone yells her name.

* * *

"Prim!" A desperate cry from somewhere to Peeta's left sounds out. More people clear a way for that familiar voice. "No! Prim!"

It's Katniss that runs for her little sister and clutches her in a frenzied manner.

"I volunteer!" She gasps "I, Katniss Everdeen, volunteer as tribute!" Her breaths are frantic and her forehead has a glistening sheath of sweat.

A hush falls over the crowd as these words make it to every ear in the district and Panem itself. Effie is dumbfounded at the sudden act, her mouth agape, attempting to spew words like it naturally did.

"Uh-well," She begins, stuttering "Then I presume we have a different tribute!" She uncertainly says, albeit happily. "Let's give a warm round of applause to Katniss Everdeen!" She smiles expectantly at the crowd.

Dead silence. Only dead silence comes from them, including Peeta.

No, instead of that, they give the most respectful gesture possible at the moment. They take the three middle fingers from their left hand touching their lips with them and then point it out to her. It means respect and gratitude. It means reverence. And it also means good-bye…

* * *

Obviously taken aback, Effie tries to bring back the attention to the Games. "Um-well then," She begins, flustered. "Let's see who will be the male tribute!" She suddenly says, satisfied for getting their attention back.

She almost scampers towards the bowl on the other end of the stage after giving Katniss her proper seat; her heels seem to crack the surface of the stage she walks upon.

When she gets to the ominous bowl, filled with so many slips, she cruelly picks a name at a snail's pace, taking her time to get everyone's undivided attention.

That's when thoughts rush in to Peeta's mind.

_What if it's one of my friend's names that gets picked? What if it's one of my brother's? No, the chances of that are slim. _But then again, Peeta recalls the one in six thousand chance of Prim's name getting drawn. It doesn't seem the odds are in his brothers' favor when Effie brings a slip to her face in front of the microphone and speaks.

* * *

"And the male tribute for District 12 is…" She agonizingly lengthens her words.

"Peeta Mellark." She grins and looks out to the crowd, her prying eyes searching for someone that looks like a "Peeta". The true Peeta is dumbfounded, stunned. He can't move, Effie calling his name still bouncing around in his head. His brothers look at him grimly, he's still lost and Effie is getting impatient.

"That's you, Peeta!" His mother screams at him from the far end of the square. It yanks him back into reality. He gasps, startled at the awareness of what has just occurred.

"C'mon Peeta…" His brothers nudge him forward, although sadly. Effie eagerly awaits the arrival of her male tribute, tapping the tip of her shoes on the stage. "You wouldn't want to keep that human parrot waiting, would you…?" Peeta's older brother says to him, failing miserably at trying to lighten the mood.

But nothing could lighten the mood as Peeta walked towards the stage, oblivious that his muscles are actually moving; his expression is that of a lost person's.

"Ah, there you are." Effie looks down at him when he walks up the steps; everything still seems like a blur. When he finally gets to her, she faces the crowd raising a defiant eyebrow. "No volunteers?" She indirectly challenges her brothers. Neither of them takes her up on that challenge. "That settles it." She triumphantly trills.

"Why don't you two brave souls shake hands?" Her voice almost seems muffled to dazed Peeta. Katniss begins the handshake with a stolidly extended arm. He doesn't understand for a few seconds, but finally releases his balled-up fists. With an absent face, he meets the girl halfway with shaky hands. Her serious expression bores into him as her strong hands hold on to Peeta's clammy ones in a vice. And before he knows it, the shake is over, leaving an achy feeling.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," Effie chirps, immediately back to her happy-go-lucky mood. "Thank you so much for joining us here today at the reaping for the 74th Annual Hunger Games!" She booms into the microphone, her fervently elated tone reassembled as the tributes somberly follow her back into the Justice Building.


	2. Getting to Know Each Other

Inside a rich room, confined within the Justice Building, Peeta sits on an extravagant couch. It's laced with fine, sleek threads, just like the rug his feet nervously rub on. And it's there that all that's occurred finally rushes into Peeta's consciousness, flooding his mind with an array of emotions. It's happened. He's been picked, and there's nothing that can prevent his imminent death.

Nervously, he twiddles his thumbs, breathing rapidly and sweating, waiting for his parents to arrive and tell him that everything's okay. That it was all a mistake and Effie Trinket accidentally said the wrong name and that all would be fine.

But no. That doesn't happen when the grand oak doors turn open to reveal his family. His father's face is frightened, and his brothers' are grim. His mother's, a blank expression of nothingness.

Peeta lunges for his father from his seat, grabbing him desperately in a bear hug, hopelessly wishing his grip is so strong they wouldn't be able to pry him off when he has to leave. His father embraces him in return, his brothers both placing solemn hands on his back tenderly. The tribute closes his eyes and begins to shed tears, creating a wet splotch on his father's shirt.

After a few minutes that way, the peacekeepers enter and inform there's only a little bit of time left for them, and then leave. Peeta's eyes suddenly open, his heart beating franticly. No, this can't be the only time he has left. He needs more.

His father lets him go to hold him by the shoulders, both of their eyes puffy. They are all speechless, not knowing what to say. Until his mother speaks up from the side.

"At least District Twelve might have a winner this year…" She says to him, her loud voice unwelcome in the once silent room. "I just hope she comes out alright." She says with a serious nod.

Peeta's father shoots her with such a stare of ferocity that it seems to burn away whatever time is left and the peacekeepers enter the room once more, ordering the family to separate. It doesn't take much force to shoo them away from each other, the boy's father has a look of grief as the doors shut, his brothers as well. He couldn't see his mother's expression. Her back was turned.

Peeta sits back down on the couch, his face in his hands, waiting to be ushered into the train that takes him to the Capitol. He can't cry anymore, cameramen will be at the station to catch his face before he leaves. He can't show everyone in Panem he's a weakling, which will only further diminish his chances of living. Even if the chances are already exceptionally slim.

When the dark oak doors open again, he quickly wipes his face free from any amount of tears, expecting to be taken away to the train station. Instead, someone else walks in.

A girl that he knows from his school tentatively enters, and the doors shut behind her with a quick "You have three minutes." before they close entirely. She just stands there shyly looking to the floor.

"Mabel?" Peeta says, his voice unexpectedly hoarse from the misuse. She's wearing a blouse with a skirt and her brown hair is tied up with a red bow.

"What are you doing here?" Peeta asks her, standing. Why would she come? He doesn't even know her that well. Her eyes move up to meet his and she instantly tears up.

"Peeta!" She cries, lunging towards the boy and hugging him tightly. She catches Peeta off guard and almost makes him lose his balance. "I'm so sorry!" Her tears flow freely as she sobs. Peeta is dumbstruck. Why did Mabel come to see him before he leaves? It doesn't make sense, he only knows her from school.

"I'm so sorry, but I had to tell you this…" She says, freeing Peeta of her vice-like grip. "Before you leave. I had to tell you this…" She tries to speak, choking back her sobs. Peeta waits in earnest for what she absolutely needed to say.

"You've always been so kind to me…" She says, her throat clogged from the tears. "…I-I love you, Peeta…" She finally gets out, wiping her face with her hands. But before Peeta can even attempt to form words, she extends her arm, handing a small, rusty object to him. "I want you to have this. Don't ever forget who you are, Peeta." She says, wiping her eyes with her free hand. The object is an insignificant, small coin, coins that the kids in District 12 play a wide assortment of games with. They're worth virtually nothing, being made of a golden-brown copper. But for some reason, when it falls on Peeta's hands, its dingy anterior reflects all of his childhood memories upon it. Its rough surface strangely comforts him. When it falls in Peeta's hands, it's suddenly worth its weight in gold.

Almost as if on cue, the peacekeepers barge in, forcefully urging Mabel to leave.

"Promise me you'll try to come back!" She hurriedly says, being pushed away quickly out the room. Emotions flood Peeta, compelling him to speak.

"I promise—" He gets in before the loud sound of the doors shutting cuts him off. Its bang rings for days in the now empty room. The boy observes his only gift. A coin that amounts to less than a penny. But in his hands, its gravity feels heavier than the Earth itself.

* * *

In only a few moments, different peacekeepers enter the room Peeta is in from a backdoor, breaking his deep thoughts.

"Peeta Mellark," One says with a strong voice. "Come with us." He commands. Peeta complies and exits the opulent area to the back of the Justice Building, where the train station is located. When he walks through the door, he's reminded of the sultry weather that exists outside, the sun beating down upon him.

He's lead down steps and in front of a railroad, where the cameramen are shooting videos by the dozen, strongly clenching the coin in his left hand, desperately trying to stay calm. As the flashes from their cameras hurt Peeta's eyes, causing him to flinch at every photo, Katniss walks from behind him and is told stand beside the male tribute. Her face is as solid as a rock, almost bored. Peeta couldn't help but think how his face might seem. Probably red, making it obvious he's been crying, severely decreasing his chances of anyone sponsoring him in the arena.

But Katniss just stands there impassively. She could've been at a funeral with that demeanor. She might as well have been.

* * *

Once the cameramen take their full, looking so satisfied, as if they've eaten a whole buffet, the tributes enter the modern-looking train, followed closely by Effie Trinket and a clumsily drunk Haymitch Abernathy. Its chrome surface is designed to look stylish all the while reflecting any type of heat and light to keep the inside cool. And then the automatic doors slide closed, blocking all the sounds of the outside with its two inch-thick glass, making the environment inside unnervingly quiet. And it's when these doors close that Peeta realizes that this is it. There's no turning back.

The train's interior is stunningly luxurious. Velvet covers the ceiling in plush bumps. There are cozy couches and sofas placed in front of expensive tables. The cutlery on a dining table seems to cost more than thousands of Peeta's tiny coin. An indoor bar spans the breadth of the main room; this apparently causes Haymitch's eyes to brighten in delight.

"It was very nice meeting you. I'll just be going, now." He says, although he hasn't even fully met with the tributes, separating from the group to joyfully canter over to the bar. This makes an unnatural frown appear on Effie's face, but it doesn't visibly seem to move Katniss in any way possible. Peeta just stares at Haymitch leaving, unaware of how to react.

"We'll just let him do his…thing, for now." Effie dismisses Haymitch's rude manners with a wave of her spindly hand, her fingernails so long that they threaten to slice Peeta's neck with the concise motion.

The colorful figure leads the tributes to their respective rooms, showing Katniss hers first, and justifying the reason with a quaint "Ladies first." Then she shows Peeta to his and leaves him to tend to her schedule in her own compartment.

Peeta's room is relatively simple, with a modest bed, night stand, and dresser. But of course, standards are inherently low in District 12, and the luxury nauseates Peeta. Wanting some fresh air, he opens his room window to the sight of the radiant sun casting its warm rays upon a large expanse of hills and meadows. Holding in his hands the coin Mabel gave him, he muses over actually fulfilling the vow he so impetuously promised her. He imagines returning to District 12, his home, into loving hands. Maybe his mother might even be proud of him.

But then his mind crosses the notion of having to kill Katniss. He might be able to kill someone else, someone he doesn't know. Just so that he could get back home. But what if they both survive in the arena? What if it ends up them being the only ones left? He imagines Katniss holding up a bow with an arrow strung, ready to fire, himself stunned, defenseless and weak.

He pictures her serious face looking deep at him, menacing. Then she lets her hand loose, an arrow flying, targeted for Peeta's heart.

A sharp knock on the door startles Peeta back to reality, yanking him away from his frightening nightmare. He gasps in returning back to the real world. The knocking continues, with no identification of whom.

"What?" Peeta says, almost grouchily. Effie would've been disappointed in him, but only if it _were_ her. The knocking continues, this time slightly more timid, as if the person behind the door is communicating with him through some sort of wordless language. Slightly annoyed, he walks over and opens the door swiftly.

It's one of those attendants with white uniforms; they don't ever seem to talk for some reason. The attendant silently gestures for Peeta to follow him. Peeta complies, confused, and they speechlessly walk up the hallway to the main room where the dining table is set up.

Everyone is seated there, including a melancholy Katniss and a cranky Haymitch. Effie notices Peeta's entry and greets him with a flashy grin.

"Ah! There you are, Peeta!" She says, her hands clasped together in joy. "We weren't going to start without you, now that wouldn't be polite to our new tribute, but someone…" She subtly eyes a binge eating Haymitch, who isn't even aware of Peeta's arrival. "…decided to eat first." She sighs lightly. "Well, let's begin."

The food is amazing! That's all Peeta can think while he eats his extravagant meal. Katniss just sits there, twiddling her food around with her fork broodingly. Effie, after having attached her napkin to her collar and scrupulously placed her cutlery in its correct positions, meticulously and deliberately bites her food with care, as if her life depended upon it. Haymitch, to the contrary, spills his plate and drink all over the place, including himself.

"Well," Effie, after having made sure to swallow all of her food and dab her mouth with her napkin, tries to create a conversation. "I think you guys already know this, but Haymitch is your mentor, thus your best chance at winning the Games." She says to both Katniss and Peeta. "If you guys start to formulate a plan as soon as now, I know the odds will be in your favor!" She says with such wasted enthusiasm; for Haymitch sizes up the tributes and then disregards them both, getting back to his food.

"Just do your best." He says, while spewing bits of food on the tablecloth, as if he's been saying the same exact words to every other tribute that he meets. He must be tired with trying to help them live and then seeing them die in the arena.

Effie frowns at this uninterested comment, but it's Katniss's reaction that surprises the group. Previously concentrating on her uneaten food, she moves her eyes up at him with a look of distaste.

"Is that it?" She says, having not heard her speak for hours, her tone sounds harsher than it really is to everyone. "You expect us to win with that?" Her voice slightly escalates, but Haymitch just blankly stares at her, unmoving. Peeta stares as well, surprised by her sudden outburst. Effie gapes in shock at the girl.

"Ugh." She grunts, agitated, getting up from her seat and throwing the napkin from her lap on her plate of food furiously, and then storms off to her room. Haymitch just eyes the space she last was until she ran out of his sight, then chuckles, a grin on his unkempt face, reverting back to his food.

"What can I say?" He says, more to himself, but loudly nonetheless. "The girl's got spunk." _He seems more interested in her now at least_, Peeta thinks. _Maybe he might give us some more instructions on how to survive,_ the tribute hopes. Effie is still shocked at the flagrant breach of etiquette, her eyes as wide as dinner plates.

* * *

After dinner, and a little of cajoling Katniss out of her room on Effie's part, the group sits in the living room to watch all other tributes that have been reaped today. Haymitch, clutching a crystal clear bottle of vodka in his hands, sits on the plush couch, impatiently waiting on Effie to switch to the Capitol Channel. Katniss and Peeta sit next to each other, Peeta on the end. He's noticed the girl's bored expression has now altered into a perpetual scowl. _Why does she seem so angry? Is she thinking about how she's going to have to kill them, like me?_ Peeta questions his mind.

Effie squeals in excitement when she reaches the channel and scoots in to the couch so that she may enjoy the show.

It begins with District 1; of course, they are the lap dogs of the Capitol. The city shines with jewel plated everything. Even some of the people. A slender woman picks a slip and calls out a name for the female tribute.

"Glimmer Clair!" She smiles to the crowd expectantly. The girl's chestnut, wavy hair bounces as she quite literally runs to the stage, does a few cartwheels, and then flips. She lands smack-dab next to the slender woman, just to impress the audience, her tresses waving, brisking her shoulders.

"Show off." Katniss hisses. This coerces a chuckle from Haymitch, and a "Shh" from a captivated Effie. Peeta agrees with Katniss on this one, why couldn't he have done some sort of gymnastic trick when he was called instead of walk in a stupor, like an idiot? There was no time for Peeta to answer his question when the woman picks out a name for the male tributes.

"Marvel Ochki!" She speaks into the microphone.

"Oh yay! Marvel!" Glimmer jumps in joy, clapping her hands, absolutely elated she's going into the arena with him, as if it's more a tea party than a bloodbath. The boy does no spectacular trick, but he waves contentedly at the crowd as he walks through it, his close-cut, light-brown hair is littered with the random rose petals being thrown at him, as if he was a god.

"Okay then," Effie says, holding the remote directed to the T.V., although still planted in her seat. "We can skip everything else now, it's mostly just them leaving, and it won't help you guys." She says, and deliberately clicks the fast-forward button, skipping all of the stuff in between until she gets to the point where the District 2 tributes are being called.

It's very different from the last district, its main industry being weapons and masonry. Vey dark and almost gloomy, Peeta observes. There is a fierce-looking man holding up the name for the female tribute.

"Clove Gavran." He says in a rough accent. The girl called Clove walks through the center of the crowd purposefully, giving off a vibe of "I was born to do this". She has an austere look on her. Foreboding and cunning at the same time. Peeta does not want to mess with her.

The man continues reaping. But before he utters a sound, someone in the crowd immediately volunteers. The boy's blonde hair contrasts with Clove's dark-brown hair. But in the same manner, maybe even more menacingly-if that was possible-he swaggers over to the stage, demanding all attention. The crowd hushes all at once, as if by the command of his dark eyes, and watches him walk up the stairs to the stage, determined that he is going to win this year. Peeta is awe-struck. Katniss just watches him with contemplative eyes.

"My name is Cato—"

"Okay then," Effie suddenly skips ahead, yanking the boy and girl back to reality. "That was good, but we don't have all night." She says in her annoyingly chirpy voice. The rest was a blur to Peeta, he remembers seeing a red-headed girl from District 5 stick out in his memory, but can't quite place her name. And there was a strange duo from District 11, a towering boy and a small girl. But that's all he remembers, thoughts of that boy from 2 in his head. Cato was his name. If there's anyone to be wary of, it's that boy.

* * *

Back in his room, Peeta returns to his perch on the windowsill. Now, the sun rests heavenly atop the horizon, its warm rays spreading far and wide, casting a tender glow across the world. The clouds reflect the soft pink and orange hues like brush strokes. The sky looks starkly similar to a beautiful painting.

Sunset. Peeta's favorite part of the day. Gazing at it calms him with its soothing colors. The sight warms Peeta, coaxing his lips to form a small smile. The only one, today.

Prying his eyes away from the lovely view, Peeta retires to his plush bed. Thoughts of the day starting to fill his mind, one-by-one.

His parents' argument. The reaping. Prim's name being drawn. Katniss desperately calling her name, so different than what she is now. Then, his name being drawn.

After that, it's mostly fuzzy. He met his parents in the Justice Building. He tries to block out his mother's coldness. He tries to forget it when she said Katniss might actually win, but he tries with no avail. Then Mabel walks in and gives him the coin. It's the only thing keeping him from spiraling into depression, emanating hope from its metal body.

It's still in his pocket, he remembers. Sitting up, he fishes it out and places it on his nightstand caringly. If there's any reason he should return, it's because of that promise he made with her, he concludes.

And with that settled, he climbs back on to his bed, squeezes inside the covers, and falls into sleep.

...

* * *

Peeta lays sprawled atop a meadow of grass, his face bleeding. It's the arena and the Games have started. Collapsed on the dirty ground, paralyzed from head to toe, he can only move his eyes. Footsteps sound to his left. They're light, but gaining on him steadily. They edge closer and closer, walking certainly and deliberately. Then Katniss comes into view, her hands grasping a bow and arrow, ready to fire at any moment. Her face is eerily serious, an expression of nothingness, as if this is just like catching game for her. As if he's a defenseless turkey, and she'll be eating him soon enough. Then, unexpectedly, it violently shifts to a scowl. A vicious scowl so filled with hatred it burns into Peeta's eyes.

_No, _Peeta could barely mouth the insignificant word before she lets her hand loose.

* * *

"NO!" Peeta screams in actuality, jolting upright in his bed. His body is sweaty and his breathing is rapid. His eyes are open wide, terrified. It takes him a few moments for him to calm down before he collapses backward, exasperated.

* * *

_Thanks for reading and reviewing! _


	3. Empty Looks

Peeta awakes unpleasantly to a fervent rapping on his door. He gets up quickly, yet grouchily, to get to the door, assuming it's one of the seemingly mute attendants.

"Peeta?" Effie's voice sounds to the boy. He stops halfway in his stride.

"Yes?" He says, his eyes squinting in the harsh light flooding through the window, his hair a disheveled mess, it always does that.

"Peeta, get ready, quick. We're nearing the Capitol." Her tone is worried. And after having her say, she hurriedly leaves, her heels penetrating the still morning air in the train with their annoying clatter.

Peeta takes a look in his dresser for the first time and spots one pair of clothing. He examines the outfit. A pair of jeans and a button-down shirt, along with shoes, socks, and underwear. He gathers his clothes and enters the nearby bathroom to take a shower, not forgetting to grab his coin.

After making himself presentable, he walks over to the dining table and commences a splendidly delicious breakfast the attendants serve him. No one is there yet, unless you would count a passed-out Haymitch over by the bar as fully _there_. Effie is probably making some last-minute arrangements, or more likely coaxing Katniss out of her room again. Peeta looks out the window and catches sight of the infamous Capitol. Even in broad daylight, its skyscrapers' lights dazzle the boy. Their glass anteriors reflect the sun's radiance spectacularly, almost blinding Peeta.

Effie arrives to the dining table, along with an impassive Katniss. Memories of last night's dream pop up in Peeta's head. But he's quickly distracted by Effie's appearance today. It would be an understatement to call it a slight turn of her fashion sense. She sports a whole new color entirely, a sickening lilac. It's in everything she wears, from her toes to her eyelids. It also seems to be in her manner, speaking as nauseatingly as possible. It wouldn't be surprising to hear she's injected herself with the color, in an effort to _be_ the color.

* * *

The silver train nears the bustling metropolis and grinds to a halt at the train station, away from any of the adoring fans that just want to smother the two tributes to death.

And before he knows it, Peeta is whisked away by peacekeepers to the inside of a building apparently named the Remake Center. The name only comes out as foreboding when Peeta catches a glimpse of it strung on the wall before he's pushed into a room with three strange looking characters.

The "people" turn their heads away from a magazine at the sound of the door banging closed. Then Peeta gets a good sight of them.

They seem to be two women and one man. One plump woman, who is colored a deep shade of emerald green, walks over to Peeta, observing him. There are tentacles at her waist disturbingly projecting off of her body and drooping to her knees. Are they meant to mimic a skirt? The other cartoons follow her closely.

"Hmm…" The green woman scrutinizes Peeta, a swollen hand to her chin in contemplation. The expression doesn't suit her look at all.

"I know what you mean…" The man pipes up from beside her. They all huddle close to the nervous boy, now. The man sports a vivid orange on his face and body, and his outfit strangely distends at the abdomen, not unlike a pumpkin. _An orange clown…with a beer belly?_ Peeta confusedly thinks.

"Yes, but if we did…" The second woman contributes to the conversation. She's completely bleached from head to toe. Her harsh blonde hair and white skin glow with an unpleasant light, although the makeup painting her face is dark shade of purple, contrasting vividly. People in the Capitol are appearing stranger and stranger to Peeta.

"So what if we did…" The man says. They all seem to be talking telepathically, because Peeta doesn't hear any informational words exchange between them. Bewildered by the sight, Peeta apprehensively speaks up.

"Uh…" He starts "My name's Peeta. And—"

"Yeah, yeah we know all that." The first woman stops his words with a wave of her sea-green hand. "I'm Tentra," She introduces herself. "This is Carmanep," She gestures a hand towards the orange man at Peeta's right. "And this is Voiliette." She turns her hand the opposite direction to point to the bleached woman at Peeta's left. "And you're here so we can make you beautiful!" She says eagerly, her dark eyes strangely sparkling like black pearls in an ocean.

* * *

It doesn't take long for the crew to make Peeta 'Beautiful!', as they say. All it took was a bath in a volatile green liquid to soften his skin, Carmanep plucking all of Peeta's stray hairs, in _every_ crevice of his body, and a stinging solution for his face so that it shines a healthy glow. Peeta doesn't think anything in that concoction was exactly _healthy_ for you.

After the torture, his colorful crew sends him off to another room to meet his stylist, Portia. Expecting some type of hideous monstrosity, Peeta's met with a nice surprise.

She's a modest woman, slightly curvy, but wears a humble black dress. Her face and body aren't artificially altered in any way, only her turquoise feather earrings stick out, dangling in a cascade of peacock plumes down to her shoulders. Elegant, yet not overly extravagant as most other people in the Capitol do with their appearances.

"Nice to meet you, Peeta," She says, her voice sweet and mellow. "Sorry about the prep team, they're…bold." She smiles to Peeta and they shake hands.

"It's okay, my skin doesn't itch anymore." He jokes with her, his first one since ages, so he's a little rusty. She warmly laughs at him anyways.

"But let's get down to business. Cinna, Katniss's stylist, and I have got a plan to make you guys _unforgettable_." She slyly smiles at him, making the tribute nervous.

"You're a baker aren't you? What are your thoughts on fire?"

* * *

After a few hours, Peeta is at the ground level of the Remake Center, wearing a sleek, all-black unitard that reaches from his neck to his ankles. Wearing large, yet stylish, coal boots, an crimson cape comprised of thin fibers that create a fire effect, and a matching headpiece, he and Katniss are standing in the chariots that will show off all the tributes for the Games tonight. Katniss wears the same outfit, except it's custom tailored for her. They are meant to reflect District 12's qualities. The only thing remarkable about 12 is its coal mining industry.

The idea that Portia explained is that coal burns. Apparently, the cape and headpiece are designed to produce a fake flame that is supposed to look spectacular. So, in essence, Peeta and Katniss are the coal.

The idea doesn't exactly _comfort_ them.

Nervous, but somehow also slightly excited, Peeta examines all the other tributes either preparing for the show or already in their positions, ready to woo the crowd.

There is an array of all different types of tributes wearing a wide variety of themes and colors. For the District 11 chariot, a towering, hefty boy stands in a toga made of wheat beside a petite, innocent little girl wearing the same garb.

Then Peeta spots the District 1 tributes, clad in shimmering gemstones. Glimmer wears a dress that shines bright with rubies and emeralds, but it must weigh a ton. Marvel wears a dapper suit of sapphire. The dazzling display is astonishing, but soon enough it begins to irritate Peeta's eyes.

District 5, power and electricity distribution, has a…stunning…scheme. That same red-headed girl stands beside a small boy, both of their hairs sticking at ends and burnt to a crisp, mimicking being electrocuted. Although the comical hair-do, the girl holds a blank expression, darting her eyes from tribute to tribute, analyzing them cynically. Her golden eyes show true electricity.

Then Peeta catches sight of the District 2 chariot. This year, the two tributes are fitted in daunting gladiator costumes, plates of bronze and copper shielding their bodies, except the legs. _Cato and Clove…_Peeta contemplates. They stand next to each other on their chariot, arms crossed, an inseparable pair of formidable enemies. Studying every competitor they can lay a piercing gaze upon. Clove has her hair braided back, a spear in her hand, her eyes dashing from tribute to tribute after staring at one for a few seconds, switching to the next. Cato the same, a sword strapped to his waist, his frightening line of vision surveying the room. Then, along their course, his eyes spot Peeta watching him from yards away.

_Crap._ That's all that goes through Peeta's mind when Cato looks at him, the gladiator's face devoid of feeling. The gaze paralyzes Peeta, their eyes locked for what seems like centuries, Cato boring into him.

"What are you looking at?" Katniss snaps Peeta out of it, his eyes averting from Cato's fierce ones. She looks at him, quizzically annoyed.

"Nothing…" He replies, grateful for her wake-up call. She leaves him be and then the doors leading to the outside open. They are colossal, covering a whole wall of the first floor. This is where the chariots will leave, in order of district, and canter along the "runway" to be examined by all the people of the Capitol. This is the defining moment of who will sponsor which district's tributes. Peeta and Katniss can either make a wonderful splash, or burn to the ground in their flaming costumes.

"Ready, guys?" Portia asks the duo, holding a lighter in her hand. "This won't hurt at all, I promise." She lights both their capes and they burst into flames. Peeta shuts his eyes quickly in fear, but when he notices he's not in ashes, he opens them again. "I told you." Cinna says to Katniss, who was frightened as well.

"Oh, it's your guys' turn!" He announces, and the chariot's horses begin their steady pace. "You'll do great!" The stylists say, with comforting smiles, proud of their fantastical creation. Katniss and Peeta stray farther and farther from their stylists. Cinna shouts something from too great a distance, his voice doesn't reach them. Katniss holds a hand to her ear, signing that she and Peeta couldn't hear them. In return, the stylists clasp hands and hold them high enough for the tributes to see. Although their gesture, Katniss narrows her eyes in confusion.

"I think they want us to hold hands." Peeta explains to her.

"Oh." She says, looking at him. They string hands together awkwardly.

Nervous, they move along the line until in sight of people, their blazing flames dancing vibrantly in the night air. The display catches peoples' sight, demanding attention, settling for no less than the gaze of every person. Katniss and Peeta are showered with loving cheers and flowers, the latter burning anywhere close to their bodies. Their hands relax, losing all tension, and they both smile to the crowd, gaining more woos. Their dazzling display is all that the Capitol citizens' eyes were trained on for the entire time.

* * *

After the show, all the tributes enter the Training Center. When Katniss and Peeta finally enter the building, being the last chariot, the doors close behind them and they are met with Effie, their stylists, and their mentor, all giving a word of praise for their spectacular performance.

"You guys showed District 12 so well!" Portia praised them.

"Katniss. Peeta. They loved you." Cinna commended the two.

"Marvelous! Amazing!" Effie congratulates them, as well.

"Not bad. That'll get sponsors for sure." Haymitch says, unexpectedly proud of them. The accolades flatter both tributes, smiles on their faces. Joy ringing in their bodies when they notice all the tributes' jealousy.

The silent tributes from District 11 look at them, acknowledging Katniss' and Peeta's influence over the people of the Capitol. Glimmer frowns in their direction like an immature princess. Arms crossed, she stomps her foot on the ground, furious. Marvel does what he can to placate the raging girl. And the girl from District 5, forcing her stubborn hair down from its spikes, stares at Peeta and Katniss, piercing Peeta with her bright eyes. Her face is blank, but it's the eyes that catch Peeta's attention. They shroud something much more cunning than her figure could ever express.

Then Peeta notices Cato from the side glaring at him fiercely, his back leaned on a wall. _Crap, not again. _What did Peeta do to get such a look of malice from the boy? Cato doesn't seem in that dire need of sponsors. Their eyes meet for a millisecond, and then Cato huffs, storming off irately. Clove follows him, furious.

Peeta visibly sighs, relieved his eyes didn't lock with the boy's for days again.

* * *

On the twelfth floor, the group celebrates Peeta's and Katniss's splendid performance with an extravagant meal. Their suite is humongous, rich furniture sets the contemporary "live in the lap of luxury for a few nights then go fight to the death" mood perfectly. The dining table holds food from all corners of Panem. Enticing hors d'oeuvres sit on platters along the side. Tempting desserts beckon Peeta. Mouth-watering turkeys and various other fowl birds lie in the center. Katniss takes a chunk out of a goose and starts scarfing it then and there, causing an irritated frown from Effie. Haymitch is caught up in the 2,000-year-old wine, drinking a gulp of it with every bite. Peeta doesn't know where to start. He settles with a succulent portion of the steak lain so alluringly in front of him.

After having finished with dinner down to the divine glace au four cake, Effie wipes her face with a napkin carefully and begins to speak.

"Now would be a good time to come up with a game plan, wouldn't it?" She says joyfully, smiling at them all expectantly. Memories of Katniss's and Haymitch's controversy in the train come up. Katniss looks up to Haymitch, half expecting to get a "Just do your best" again.

"You know, you're probably right." He says, gulping another portion of his wine down. This makes Effie elated, clapping in her seat.

"I'll start with you, Sweetheart." He says to Katniss. The nickname visibly annoys Katniss, but she disregards it. "Then we'll work on you, baker boy." He says with a nod to Peeta.

"Okay." Peeta replies, exalted to finally have a sliver of a chance at winning this, the golden-copper coin in his pocket suddenly becoming warm.

"That's very courteous of you, Haymitch!" Effie coos "Ladies first, such a gentleman." She sounds proud of Haymitch. The man shoots her a look of disapproval.

"Actually, Sweetheart's first 'cause she needs more help than he does," he says to her matter-of-factly. This is met with a glare from Katniss.

"What's that supposed to mean?" She asks, insulted.

"It means," continues Haymitch "You need more help than he does." He says, tilting his head to Peeta gruffly. The boy's slightly confused, but flattered nonetheless. Katniss looks at Haymitch with pure distaste. She opens her mouth to spit out an insult.

"Just stop it, both of you." Peeta says unexpectedly. He doesn't wish to jeopardize any chances of his survival because of a brawl from Haymitch and Katniss. They both look at him, slightly annoyed, but drop it anyways, getting up from their seats to discuss how Katniss should act to get the most sponsors possible. Effie and Peeta soon follow, retiring to their respective rooms.

* * *

Within the safety of his room, Peeta comfortably changes into his sleeping wear, still unaccustomed to the luxury he lives in. _At least this life won't last long…_Peeta thinks.

He peeks out his window, entranced by the captivating lights of the Capitol. Its silhouette contrasts with the dark night sky. Peeta contemplates over all that's happened today, a little too much to handle. He met with his, quite literally, colorful prep crew; then he met with Portia, possibly his only "friend" since he visited; he and Katniss amazed the Capitol's citizens with their awe-inspiring show; and then come the thoughts of the tributes he saw.

District 11's tributes, Rue and Thresh he found out were their names; don't seem like terrifying foes, especially not the little girl, Rue. But Thresh. Although formidable for sure, he doesn't seem to hold a deep malice within him. He doesn't seem to want to be there, killing everyone he can get his humongous hands on.

Then come Peeta's thoughts on the comical duo Marvel and Glimmer. Their actions with each other amuse Peeta; they obviously must know each other well. Glimmer just seems slightly ill-tempered, not a menacing foe at all. And Marvel's too attached with her for Peeta to even understand his personality.

Peeta's musings shift to the mysterious girl from District 5, the only things that show any amount of feeling from her are her eyes. Golden and bright, they show so vividly in Peeta's mind. He can't decipher anything at all from her. This unnerves Peeta.

Finally, Peeta's thoughts settle on the frightening tributes of District 2. Clove and Cato. They seem to know each other as well. But in no way are they amusing to Peeta. Their chilling glares, their intimidating auras, their obvious adeptness with weapons. Everything about them disconcerts Peeta, and the dream of winning sneaks farther and farther away from him. The vow he made with Mabel comes to mind. He doesn't love her, but she's his anchor. The only reason to come back.

And then Peeta finds himself in his bed on his side, staring at the coin she entrusted to him.

"_…Don't ever forget who you are, Peeta." _Her words come to Peeta's mind clearly.

"...Never," He whispers in return, falling to sleep.

* * *

Peeta lies on a cramped bed in an unfamiliar, pitch-black room. Two golden eyes peer at him from the darkness. Then footsteps sound from their direction. The eyes emerge, the owner being that same mysterious, red-headed girl. She inches closer, her face expressionless. Then she leans over Peeta. His breathing becomes rapid. His mouth opens in a scream.

"Shh…" The command silences him, his lips locked, petrified. She grabs a crimson blanket and drapes it over the defenseless boy. "Go to sleep." She eerily says, her countenance devoid of emotion, dangerously close to his face. And then she pulls out a lighter, holding it up. Opening the cap and starting its fire, she brings it to his blanket, igniting it instantly. The flames crawl towards Peeta, licking his face.

The burning pain is unbearable as it eats his skin, but he cannot scream. She stole that privilege from him. The girl merely watches him in agony, her visage a blank nothingness, but her eyes a deep evil. The flames dance around him in the dark room, revealing their location. Then Peeta realizes where it is he's burning to death.

His home.

* * *

**Thanks for all the reviews!**


	4. Opportunities

_Knock knock knock!_ Someone strongly knocking on the door wakes Peeta up the next morning. Having gotten scantily any amount of sleep last night, he merely groans in response to the rapping.

"Peeta?" Effie says on the other side. She sounds nervous. "Peeta, hurry up. You and Katniss have to get to the training center in thirty minutes!" She says, and then her heels create a click clack clamor as she walks off.

Peeta reluctantly gets out of bed, dragging himself into his bathroom. He removes himself of clothing and enters the shower. There's a metal panel with a variety of colorful buttons and levers that must control the water temperature and whatnot. There has to be at least fifty of them, all different colors and sizes.

_What does this one do? _The sleepy boy ponders. He turns the biggest lever and instantly the water comes shooting fast through the nozzle, extremely cold. Peeta jumps in surprise, making as much distance between him and the freezing water. He apprehensively moves his arm around it and pushes a red button with an _H _marked on it. The water then steams. Peeta tests it with his hand and now it's burning hot.

"Ah! Shit!" He screams, the water scalding his fingers. Furiously, he pushes a silver, square button and is instantly met with relief. The water is _perfect_.

After getting himself soaked, the boy tentatively clicks a green button on the corner. Jets of shampoo from the ceiling instantaneously target his head, burning his eyes.

"Ah!" Peeta shouts, cringing. Blind, he randomly pushes all the buttons he can in a desperate frenzy to rid his eyes of the stinging concoction. In return, the shower spouts out liquids of all colors, attacking his skin in every direction with every formula possible. Loofahs and many other abrasive materials grind Peeta in places he does _not _want to be grinded in. The water temperature violently jerks from hot to cold, oscillating indecisively.

"Crap!" He yells.

* * *

After that pleasant session with the Capitol's technology, Peeta grouchily walks over to the gang at the dining table wearing a t-shirt and jeans and begins to eat a luscious breakfast, his coin nestled deep in his pocket. He tries to stay out of the group's conversations, still cranky from this morning.

Then he notices Haymitch nervously stealing glances at him between every bite, like he's in deep concentration. Katniss as well, nervously darting her eyes between her plate and Peeta, irritating the boy even further. They do it long enough for Peeta to finally speak, annoyed.

"What?" He says harshly, unlike himself. Haymitch sighs and he and Katniss look at each other, as if they know something Peeta won't like to hear.

"Well…" Haymitch begins after swallowing his food—this gets a smile from Effie—"We've got a game plan…" He says it in a way as if it's a shaky topic.

"So? what is it?" Peeta asks, looking at both of them with knitted eyebrows, growing anxious to know what this is.

"Sweetheart over here doesn't seem to have many…redeeming qualities," he says frankly. Katniss sneers at Haymitch for this. "But So I've come up with a way to get you guys sponsors. We're going to spark a fake love-interest between you and Katniss." He says, looking expectantly at the boy.

"What!" Peeta asks incredulously, his eyes narrowed in confusion. _A love interest? _"Is there any other way?"

"Hey, Sweetheart over here went along with it so I thought maybe you two already had something…" He stops himself when Katniss gives him a frightening glare.

"Is this all just a game to you?" She says agitatedly, although slightly blushing.

"These are _the _Games, Sweetheart." He says to her, smiling victoriously. She simply looks at him irately.

"Oh my! Look at the time!" Effie breaks the tension while looking at her wristwatch. "Let's go. C'mon! Up Up!" She forces an arguing Haymitch from his seat.

* * *

"So what do you say, boy?" Haymitch asks Peeta when the group is in the elevator, descending down to the training room. He looks at Peeta expectantly. The boy contemplates the idea for a good period of time.

_A love interest…me and Katniss? _He thinks, bewildered. He has never thought of Katniss in that sense. She just doesn't seem attractive. Always occupied with feeding her family, she never really had good friends. Peeta never got to know her well. Well there was that one time when they were little, and Peeta tossed her some bread. She just looked so hungry, so desperate for food. But that was the closest they got to love.

And acting like he loves her is so sudden, so unexpected. _But what if it's the only way?_ What if he's in the arena, and he's starving to death or fighting off a venomous infection, and that one sponsor is all he needs to live? One sponsor that was moved by the fabricated love between him and Katniss, and willing to put some money together to give Peeta his means of survival.

This is a weapon. A weapon that'll help keep him alive, it will give him a chance to win. Maybe everyone will die of hypothermia, or a virus, or simply by another tribute; and Peeta will be the only victor. Because he got that sponsor. And then he can go home. Back to District 12, and never have to think of the Hunger Games ever again. Back with his family and friends. And Mabel…

_Mabel! _Peeta recalls the girl. _"I-I love you, Peeta…" _He remembers her words. Will he be betraying her by saying he loves Katniss? She's the only one of his friends that came to say goodbye. Should he stab her in the back like this? _"Promise me you'll try to come back!"_ Her desperate voice replays so vividly in his mind. He promised he'll try to come back. He didn't promise to love her. When he accepted the coin, he promised her he'll never forget himself, not confess his undying love. He vowed to her to stay true to himself, and that's exactly what he's going to do.

"Okay." Peeta says to Haymitch seriously. Haymitch's lips curl to a satisfied smirk.

"That a boy!" He says proudly, patting Peeta on the back. Peeta just rolls his eyes, and then they chance over Katniss looking out the elevator to the ground below.

She's blushing.

* * *

Down the escalator and at the doors of the training room, Katniss and Peeta have a last-minute discussion with Haymitch. Effie has already left to tend to her "schedule".

"Now a last bit of advice," he says to both of the tributes listening to him "Try to stay together as much as possible. And it wouldn't be bad if you guys held hands as well." He says, looking at them with a tilted-forward head. Peeta scoffs at the advice with a shake of his head. Katniss does the same, although a little flustered.

"Haha! Just joking with you guys," he says, patting them on the shoulders. "But…Sweetheart, go without Peter for now, I need to talk to him," he says, purposely calling Peeta's name wrong. What does Haymitch have to keep secret with Peeta so much that even his "lover" can't hear it? Katniss eyes them suspiciously, but walks into the Training Center nonetheless. Once she's out of earshot, Haymitch starts to talk with Peeta, slightly quieter.

"Peter, there's more I need to tell you," he says. "You're strong right? I've seen you at the bakery lifting those giant sacks of flour." Peeta can't tell where he's going with this. "It shouldn't be a problem for you to make an alliance with the careers." He says, nodding as if the deal's already been settled. But Peeta is taken aback by the notion, his eyes narrowed in confusion.

"Are you serious? Those blood-loving monsters?" He speaks in a harsh whisper, recalling Cato's and Clove's terrifying dispositions. "Don't I already have enough charm by acting like I love Katniss?"

"You've got as much charm as Effie's got bad table manners." Haymitch spits back at him, his eyebrows knit in frustration. "It's Katniss that really wooed the crowd last night." He confesses to Peeta, and then sighs. "Look. Forming an alliance with the careers is the best chance you've got to living. You want that, don't you?" He looks at Peeta.

"Yes, Haymitch. I want to live," he says blatantly. _Do you think I want to die?_ "But they're never going to let me be one of them anyway," Peeta retorts.

"Just strut your stuff." Haymitch replies matter-of-factly, smiling. "Show them a little of what you've got, like weight-lifting or whatever, and then wow them with your score in the private session with the Gamemakers tonight." His eyes sparkle like a maniac, as if he's created an ingenious plot that confirms Peeta's survival. The baker looks at him for a few seconds, contemplating the plan. _Strut my stuff? This is never going to work. Why would anyone be amazed at my weight-lifting? Yeah, 'cause there's going to be random weights in the arena for me to lug at people. _

But although the argument in his head, what other option does Peeta have to ensure he lives? How will he be safe with no allies in the Games? He won't. Even Katniss will turn on him soon enough. There's only been a handful of Hunger Games where lone wolves have won. His chances of survival in the Games are low without allies.

But even if he went with the idea of forming an alliance, would they ever accept him? Will those cold, ruthless monsters ever allow them to be in their little gang? Then again, the task of impressing Glimmer and Marvel doesn't seem all _that _challenging, though. Glimmer seems overly superficial, and she doesn't show many redeeming qualities to remark. Marvel on the other hand hasn't shown much of his personality to Peeta yet. One thing Peeta's noticed about the boy though is that he manages to stick with his district counterpart where ever she goes. The task of swaying the duo into accepting Peeta to their pack doesn't feel impossible, as long as he can impress them.

But then what about Clove and Cato? How will he impress _those_ ferocious careers? They don't seem the ones to let anyone in their circle of close friends, let alone a radius of five feet. Especially not after how Peeta and Katniss have outshone them last night. They must still be furious at District 12 for that. It's _them_ who seem the impossible ones to impress to Peeta. Is there any way to be acknowledged as a fierce tribute, ready to kill at any moment, like them? How can he show his strength other than just lifting frivolous weights? Then it hits him.

The scores. Just like Haymitch said. The one and only chance to be permitted in as a career for him. If Peeta can impress the Gamemakers tonight and acquire an astronomically high score, then that might just be enough to make Cato and Clove think again. Just maybe. But just getting a score of ten out of twelve is impossible for a simple baker from District 12.

Nonetheless, Peeta has to try. He can't sit around sulking when his chances of survival dwindle with every precious moment. If this is truly the only way to get back home, he has no choice. He must do it. Will Haymitch's plan even work, Peeta isn't sure. He isn't even sure of himself at the moment. And the odds of him getting into the career circle are one in a million. No, one in a billion.

But then again, the odds have proven themselves to be quite unpredictable.

* * *

After pondering over the plan for days on end, Peeta finally gives Haymitch a hesitant nod. This suffuses Haymitch's face with a silly grin.

"Good choice, Peter." And he strides back to their floor, elated. His excited manner can't help but put a smirk on Peeta's lips. _Does he really believe in me so much? _The boy muses. Peeta doesn't even believe in himself. But if Haymitch can trust in his abilities, he can as well.

The baker walks into the training room, a hopeful trace of confidence within his gait, the coin in his pocket burning with an optimistic fervency.

* * *

The bright light of the humongous gymnasium almost overwhelms him when he enters. It's a wide, spacious corridor lined with training areas around the edges, allotted for training a wide array of different survival techniques. The areas are all manned by a trainer, some by two. All the tributes have already gotten there before Peeta, strewn across the room, actively involved in the training. One whole wall is dedicated to the Gamemakers. They sit on an elevated stage lain with extravagant furniture, feasting on a buffet of rich, luscious foods. They're there to look over the training, to see how it's going, and then this evening they will evaluate each tribute individually.

Peeta spots Katniss huddled over a plant a few yards away. He makes a beeline for the only familiar face. Once he gets there, he notices she's kneeling in front of some type of water plant, the trainer is opposite her. This section must teach about plants and other flora.

"Hey, Katniss." Peeta greets Katniss warmly, kneeling next to her, a smile on his face. He must keep up Haymitch's love-interest plot.

She seems hesitant for a second, but then remembers the plan. "Hey, Peeta," she says with unexpected happiness. The smile on her face is so unnatural it's as if it shouldn't be there. "Guess what this plant is called," she asks, pointing to it.

"Oh, I don't know," he says back playfully. "What is it?"

"It's a katniss plant," she says, such a warm expression on her face surprises Peeta a little bit. "It's me!" She's either genuinely happy or a really good actor. Peeta surmises the latter.

"That's cool." He replies, and she and the trainer begin to talk all about water plants and their nutrient contents. Somewhere in between this languishing lecture, Peeta zones out. His eyes begin to wander. In his seat, he examines the other tributes training at various locations.

Glimmer's at the weapons section, throwing stray arrows and missing targets by miles. Even though her terrible aim, she claps gleefully whenever she randomly shoots the rim of a target, jumping with joy. She looks at Marvel, and he gives her encouraging comments. He, as well, practices with swords and whatnot, a much better wielder than Glimmer though.

Thresh is hidden in a corner, only partaking in the edible foods training area. Rue is nowhere to be seen. But then Peeta spots her tentatively walking in Katniss's direction. She sits innocently down beside Katniss and stays quiet, listening to the trainer talk about what poisonous plants smell like.

Clove is practicing knife-throwing quite a distance away from her counterpart, Cato. They seem to have different fortes at battle, Peeta observes. She seems more cunning than Cato is, more agile. But either way, both of them are only trained in close, melee-like combats. They're probably inept at anything to do with surviving in the wild. Of course, careers don't need to know anything about hunting or gathering; all they need to do is get to the cornucopia and plunder all of its treasures.

Returning to reality, Peeta continues examining the room, his eyes hover over the mystery girl, her flaming hair a red beacon, alarming him. He remembers his nightmare last night. Burning in a blanket that looked just like the cape on his costume. Her just watching him, breaching the sanctity of his home.

Peeta shakes his head violently, trying to stir his mind from the haunting thoughts. Then he sees what she's actually doing. She's at the knot-tying area, a much neglected training section, far away from any other tributes. She doesn't really seem like she's actually paying attention, just darting her eyes here and there from the sides, getting a view of everyone around her. Then her eyes meet Peeta's.

They meet for less than a second. The most inconceivably shortest amount of time. And yet, she pierces his soul with those golden orbs.

Peeta quickly acts like he's looking somewhere else, and his vision chances upon Cato. He's in a heated sword fight with an older, male trainer. Their gleaming swords clashing against one another. A battle between fervent youth and skilled experience. They both seem to be having a difficult time keeping up with each other's charges and blocks. Cato's bulging muscles rippling with every move, his face turned into an expression of extreme exertion. It's the first time Peeta's ever seen Cato sweat. He didn't know Cato was capable of something so human-like. Then again, he doesn't know much about the intimidating boy.

A strong clash between their swords wakes Peeta up from his thoughts. This brings him back to the task at hand. _Is it even possible to impress him…? _Peeta wonders. Why would someone so skilled want to acknowledge Peeta? Why would Cato want a simple baker to be in the careers? But then Peeta remembers last night, when the once collected boy seethed with anger at District 12 out-showing him. Cato does acknowledge Peeta, probably not for a good reason, but it's acknowledgement nonetheless.

And maybe if Peeta can show the boy what he's capable of, he'll get into the careers. Maybe if the baker can "strut his stuff", then that'll be good enough to be accepted. Just maybe.

* * *

With Mabel's coin giving off a warm glow of hopefulness inside his pocket, Peeta begins to talk to his so-called "lover".

"Katniss, I'm gonna train somewhere else, okay?" He says to the fixated girl, getting up. She looks up at him, slightly surprised.

"Oh, okay." She says to him uncertainly, but refocuses on the colorful, yet deadly, flower she and Rue were looking at. Peeta knows he's probably hindering the lovers dynamic Haymitch conceived for them, but he needs to go along with the other half of Haymitch's plan as well. He leaves her to her flora; she's obviously more interested in training with Rue than she is with him.

Peeta stands up, surveying which area to show whatever skill he has, if any. He notices Glimmer with a bow and arrow _trying _to shoot straight. It shouldn't be called archery what she is doing, more like a miserable failure at hand-eye coordination. She can barely hold the equipment correctly, let alone hit a target from point-blank range. And whenever by some sheer chance of luck her arrow actually meets the target, she jumps in joy, clapping her hands, as if she's won a medal for her accomplishments, her auburn, wavy hair bouncing around her shoulders. She tells of her momentous achievement to Marvel. He compliments her and looks for a bow of his own. There are no bows near his station so he snatches one from another tribute's hand, giving the boy a threatening glare, making the smaller tribute scamper away in fear.

Peeta realizes what a bully Marvel really is as he walks toward the duo. The baker grabs a bow and arrow and gets into position to shoot, three yards away from the District 1 tributes. Glimmer and Marvel take notice of him, shifting their eyes to him every other second, sizing him up, looking him over. _At least they know I exist,_ Peeta thinks. He has the opportunity to get on their good side in his hands. If he can get a clear shot, that should be enough to better Glimmer's incompetency. _That'll impress them for sure._

Peeta focuses his mind, pulling the arrow back as he's seen Katniss do quite a few times back in District 12. He's seen her at the border of their district sometimes catching stray animals. He tries to remember exactly how she looked and aimed, then he lets go of the arrow, and it shoots farther than any of Glimmers'.

It hits. It hits the white rim, but it hits nonetheless. Glimmer hasn't hit the target until her hundredth time. It wasn't bad for Peeta's first try. Now, the two acknowledge Peeta clearly, obviously interested, their bodies slightly shifted to get a better view of him, their calculating eyes boring into him, making him nervous. But it also gives Peeta a tang of confidence. _Why would they be looking if they weren't interested?_ Glimmer eyes him, startled at how much more capable he is than her. Marvel the same, although his eyes are less confused than hers. He's obviously smarter than her, but then why does he continue to act as if she's more significant than him?

Either way, Peeta, holding himself more confidently, picks another arrow from beside him, and resumes the hunter's position. He painstakingly tries to mimic how Katniss does it, perfect, always managing to hit squirrels right in the eye. And with a clearer mind, he lets his hand loose.

Red. The arrow he shoots—the second arrow he ever shoots in his life—hits the red center. It's not exactly a bull's-eye, but it's enough to make Glimmer's pretty little jaw drop in astonishment. Marvel's eyes widen in clear respect.

Even though Peeta has just outshone her, and he expected her to be infuriated and jealous, she actually starts to smirk at him, pleased. So does Marvel. They seem impressed.

_Yes! _Peeta elatedly thinks when he puts down his bow. Of course, it wasn't like Peeta has become a master at archery in two shots, but it's clear that the careers are bereft of a person like Peeta. Someone better-rounded. Unlike Glimmer, who—despite her chest—is as flat as a table when it comes to skills. And Marvel, although being her one-man retinue, he isn't going to argue with that logic. He got their attention, now how will he take advantage of it?

Filled with joy that some of the careers actually respect him in a way, he "struts" off back to Katniss, who is now at the camouflage station. _Two down, two more to go, _the boy happily thinks as he stands beside his district counterpart, the little girl, Rue, still accompanying her.

"Hey, Katniss." He says as he examines her painted arm, smiling. It's supposed to resemble a tree, but looks more like a swamp of green mush.

"Oh, hey, Peeta," she says, looking at him warmly then refocusing herself to her work. Rue camouflages her arm as well beside Katniss, a little bit more open than she was this morning. Katniss seems to get along better with this girl than she does with her own mentor.

"Let me try." Peeta says as he begins to paint his arm next to her.

* * *

After a few minutes or so, his arm is a masterpiece, a perfect blend of rugged textures and mossy colors, the right amount of this shade of green and another hue of brown. It's as if Peeta was _becoming_ a tree.

"Wow." Katniss says, amazed. Her eyes widen when they see Peeta's work. "That looks…really good." She says, looking at her arm and then his, comparing the two.

"Really?" Peeta says, flattered. He places it on one of the trees grown there for reference. Soon enough, his arm was lost in the tree's bark, completely gone from the view of the naked eye. "Yeah, you're right." He says, acknowledging his skillful camouflaging. They wash their forearms and begin to work on a sandy landscape.

* * *

Losing his concentration once again, Peeta zones out and contemplates upon what his actions in the archery station will reap. _Did Marvel and Glimmer really seem that impressed? _He muses, a smile forming on his lips. But his happiness soon dies down when realization kicks in.

There still remain Cato and Clove, and they are _not _as lenient as Marvel and Glimmer. They won't be swayed by a few arrows. No, Peeta has to make it clear to them what he is capable of. But what can he do to impress them? Other than throwing a few weights around and getting a high score in the private sessions with the Gamemakers, there really is no chance of the tributes from District 2 ever lifting an eye to barely even glance at him, let alone allow him entry into the career circle. No other way but to at least get a ten. Marvel and Glimmer were the _easy_ ones.

* * *

But before Peeta could even stand up to get to the weight-lifting area, a shrill bell sounds loudly through the air. It apparently signifies lunch time, because all the tributes file out of the gymnasium, their mentors walking back to their respective floors with them.

Katniss and Peeta follow the crowd, meeting up with a grinning Effie and a smirking Haymitch.

* * *

At the large penthouse suite, the gang sits at the familiar dining table and begins a luscious lunch, the bright afternoon sun showering them with golden rays through the windows.

"So, how did it go?" Haymitch asks Katniss and Peeta, eating a mouthful of roast beef. "Your training."

"Good," Peeta answers when Katniss doesn't oblige. What else is he supposed to say? _It went horribly. I'm going to die. Thanks for the concern, _Peeta sarcastically thinks.

"Oh, that's wonderful," Effie chimes in from her corner of the table. "So the schedule is that after lunch, all tributes will meet with the Gamemakers in the training room individually, starting from District 1 to District 12." She says, grinning. _That's right, _Peeta remembers. He's going to have to 'strut his stuff'.

"Yes, it's time to show the Gamemakers what your skills are." Haymitch contributes to the conversation. "Sweetheart, I know your qualities are with bows and arrows." He says gruffly to Katniss, who doesn't seem to care, concentrated on her food. "But Peter here," he says, looking at Peeta. "What are _your _skills," he asks the boy, as if he doesn't already know.

"Um…I can weight-lift," Peeta says uncertainly. _What more does he want?_

"Yes, that's true. But just that's not gonna get you a reliable score." He says, surprising Peeta. _Then what else is there I'm good at? _What _will _he show them other than weight-lifting? It's all he has under his sleeves. And even then, he hasn't even had time to _touch _the weights today—so much for being "better-rounded". If that's all he can "strut", then they're not going to give him anything more than an 8. And that wouldn't even impress Glimmer. What else is there for Peeta to get into the career circle? To be accepted by District 2's tributes?

"He can camouflage himself." Katniss participates, catching everyone off guard. "He looked just like that tree in the camouflage station." She says, complimenting him. Haymitch narrows his eyes in concentration, a satisfied smile playing on his lips.

"I like it. Not very orthodox, but the Gamemakers are always looking for something new," he says, a happy hand to his chin.

"But remember," Effie cuts herself in. "The private sessions are only ten minutes _each_. Pace yourselves accordingly." She says with a look that you get from a mother warning you to finish your vegetables.

* * *

A few hours after lunch and down the escalator, Effie and Haymitch leave the tributes at the floor of the training room. Before the doors of the gymnasium is a space strewn with many metal benches along the sides of the walls. This is where all the tributes will sit and wait for their name to be called to be judged in the training room. Obviously, district partners sit next to one another.

Peeta can feel his heart start to quicken its pace when he and Katniss sit on a bench with a good sight of other tributes. It doesn't take long for him to notice the mystery girl, her hair mimicking a red flag. She sits next to a scrawny, small boy, insignificant compared to her. She sits motionless, her electric eyes unmoving. Peeta quickly averts his gaze, not wanting her to look straight at him. _Why is she so…weird?_ He asks himself. _She's just another tribute, _he concludes.

He looks around the waiting room at more tributes. Unsurprisingly, Districts 1 and 2 sit in benches close to each other. They all seem so collected.

Glimmer just smiles joyfully, like she has no better place to be, swaying her legs under the bench like a schoolgirl. Marvel, beside her, looks at the other tributes with a haughty air. He's a little more arrogant than Peeta surmised him to be. Clove does the same as him, though more reservedly.

Cato doesn't look anywhere but straight. Dead straight. He could be anywhere. It's as if nothing in the world can unnerve the intimidating boy. Peeta peers into those dark, coffee-like eyes of Cato's, trying to catch a glimpse of who the tribute from District 1 really is. He comes to a loss, their rich opacity making it impossible to discern anything from them. _What's up with him? He's like a puzzle. _Peeta has been analyzing every tribute, deducing anything and everything he can about them. yet nothing seems to come when he looks at Cato. He's like a rock.

Then, Cato shifts those dark orbs right to Peeta's eyes, his expression calm. _Oh, crap, _Peeta thinks. He's trapped again, unable to move his gaze away, like a deer in headlights. Why does Cato terrify Peeta so much? But after a few seconds of the arresting eye-contact, Cato's expression unexpectedly…lightens. His mouth doesn't curl to a smile, but his face loses its tense atmosphere. And, almost nonverbally, he seems as if he's chuckling, amused. This catches Peeta off guard. _What? Why is he—?_

_**Marvel, to the Gamemakers…**_A female voice projecting from the intercom interrupts Peeta's thoughts. Cato shifts his attention to said boy standing up confidently and swaggering to the doors of the training room. Peeta's grateful for the chance to look away from Cato's powerful gaze. Glimmer claps cheerfully for her district partner. "Yay! You can do it, Marvel!" She says like a cheerleader. Clove simply glares at Glimmer, annoyed. The girl doesn't seem to notice.

After ten minutes, Marvel comes walking out of the arena like a champ. Glimmer's eyes brighten at his arrival. "How'd you do?" She asks, a silly grin on her face.

"Great, of course." He replies, smirking like he won the Gamemakers' hearts. He sits back on his seat.

_**Glimmer, to the Gamemakers…**_the woman on the intercom speaks again.

"Yay! It's my turn!" Glimmer says vivaciously while clapping, glee overflowing from her so much it seems to drown the room. Clove just sits there disinterested, her eyes deliberately made to look uncaring. Cato sighs lightly, his eyebrows shifted slightly upwards in the 'that's-nice-I-don't-care' expression. Oblivious as ever, Glimmer joyfully canters over to the doors, swinging them open animatedly and then swiftly closing them and causing a bang to ring in the room.

Taking a risk, Peeta darts his eyes over Cato again. The tribute from District 2 looks straight ahead, bored. _It's only been fifteen minutes, _Peeta thinks, his palms have already begun to sweat, and Cato seems bored? But Peeta has a game plan: Camouflage and weight-lifting. But although the ingenious plot, he can't help but feel nervous. If he screws up and gets a stupid number like 8, then he's most likely done. The chances of him living without the alliances of the careers will shrink down to virtually nothing. And then he'll be left to starve to death somewhere in a pit.

_What is he thinking? _Peeta ponders over the question about Cato. _Why did he laugh at me?_ Just last night he seemed ready to kill Peeta after the chariot show. Now he silently chuckles at the tribute from District 12. Is he laughing at Peeta? Is he amused by Peeta? Is he picturing Peeta's torturous death?

_Bang! _The door closing behind Glimmer as she enters the waiting room fills the silent area again. All eyes are upon her. "I'm back," she says, bubbling with fizzy happiness.

"What'd you get?" Marvel asks as she sits down beside him.

"Obviously an eleven." She says. Her arrogance saturates the air ungracefully, making everyone nauseous. Marvel simply nods his head in approval. Clove gives such a fabricated smile that even Glimmer should've noticed. Her dense head didn't allow it.

_How did she get an eleven? She obviously didn't try a hand at archery, _Peeta amusedly thinks, a smirk playing upon his lips. At this exact moment, Cato's lips curl upwards with a tiny chuckle as well, as if he was thinking the same thing as Peeta. And their gazes meet all over again, Cato's eyes penetrating Peeta's thoughts. _Did he just read my mind?_

_**Cato, to the Gamemakers…**_Cato breaks the strange eye-contact to walk up to the doors, his obvious muscles moving beneath his sun-kissed skin.

"Good luck!" Glimmer calls out before the doors shut, shutting her voice out as well. This puts a childish frown to her face. She slumps back in her seat, a little too back as she purposely pushes herself on Marvel, wordlessly asking for comfort.

Clove smirks at this, rolling her eyes. "Does it _look _like any boy wants a girlfriend right now?" She says to Glimmer, her eyebrows risen up. Glimmer looks at her with the eyes of a puppy, then sighs, sitting up. Her gloomy eyes wander the room, and then find Peeta's. She perks up instantly, a smile popping on her face.

"That's okay," she says to Clove, her eyes still locked with Peeta's. "I have my eyes on another." She winks at him, catching him off guard. Clove shifts her head to see what Glimmer is looking at. Peeta hurriedly averts his eyes, but his cheeks are enough of a clue to tell Clove. The District 2 tribute sighs, annoyed at Glimmer's persistence.

Cato comes back and closes the training room doors, calmly walking back to his seat. His eyes glance at Peeta for a second and then dart over to Clove. The two tributes from District 2 exchange a tacit conversation, wordless, but conveying everything. It's as if they've known each other long enough to speak telepathically.

Clove relaxes herself, signifying to Peeta that Cato's session went well. Despite the body language, Glimmer still probes the boy with questions.

"Sooo," She unnecessarily lengthens her word. "How'd it go?" She asks, leaning forward in her seat to get a good side-view of Cato.

"It went well." He says, not exactly itching to talk to the overly-happy girl.

_What _did _Cato do? _Peeta wonders. He could've done a handful of things, he's very skilled. Peeta has seen him train with the swords, maces, spears, and just about any other deadly weapon he could get his hands on earlier today. The boy is obviously adept at fighting. Peeta knows that careers basically attend an academy to train for the Games for their whole lives. They must've been in the training facilities ever since they were children. Although Peeta doesn't know what type of rare error occurred with Glimmer. Many things probably don't enter that hard head of hers.

_**Clove, to the Gamemakers… **_In response, Clove stands up and approaches the doors, grateful to get out of earshot from Glimmer. And for the whole period of Clove's absence, Glimmer has been giving Peeta looks. Looks that wish to say "you-totally-want-me" but only come out as "I'm-making-an-idiot-of-myself". Peeta doesn't know whether he should be flattered by them, or repulsed. Soon enough, Clove enters the waiting room confidently, a sense of accomplishment within her gait.

* * *

After a few minutes, the tributes realized they can leave after their sessions; and thus, all the careers left to go to their respective floors. Soon enough, Peeta lost count of how many district tributes passed through those doors until he hears a name being called and that same scrawny boy from District 5 stands up, the red-headed girl sitting impassively beside him. After ten minutes he comes out and sits silently beside her again, as if they don't even know the other exists. Peeta forces himself against his will not to look over in their direction, scared she might pierce him again with those golden eyes.

_**Iris, to the Gamemakers…**_The familiar voice sounds through the room, and the girl soundlessly walks across and enters the training gymnasium.

_Iris…_Peeta thinks. _So that's her name._ He wonders what she'll do to impress the Gamemakers. He wonders what she _can _do to impress the Gamemakers. _Tie some knots…?_ He muses confusedly.

Pushing the topic aside, he starts to lose concentration again, and time begins to speed past him. Before he notices it, his name is being called.

_**Peeta, to the Gamemakers…**_

His heart immediately quickens in pace, his palms start to sweat all over again. Despite his fidgeting nerves, he gets up. Katniss looks up at him, she's the last one. Peeta feels sorry for her because of that. He walks somberly to the doors and opens them quietly.

"Good luck…" She softly says in his direction. He looks at the ground in front of him.

"…Thanks." He says, and then enters the gymnasium.

* * *

The room is the same as it was this morning, just dimmer and much more vacant without the tributes and trainers. The Gamemakers sit on the same stage they were on earlier. They're eating an illustrious dinner, rich and decadent. Only a few barely notice him over the loud talking and delicious food.

Nonetheless, Peeta walks to the most familiar station, the camouflage station. He begins to paint himself the color of the walls. It might seem easy, considering they're simple and gray. But there are a hundred textures of different sheets of metals and bolts that only Peeta's keen eye can see. He finishes coloring the whole front side of himself in only a few minutes. Record time. But when he leans on the wall closest to him, no one lifts an eye to see his accomplishment. Not because he's so well hidden, but because the Gamemakers are so engrossed in their own material world.

Irritated, Peeta paces over to the weight-lifting area, giving up on the camouflage idea. Machines and weights lay in front of Peeta, waiting to be used. He doesn't know where to start. He begins with a simple dumbbell. But this doesn't attract any attention from the Gamemakers. If anything, it loses it.

Slightly more agitated, Peeta cursorily picks up a giant metal ball the size of a dog. It has a handle melded to it for convenient usage. He lifts it with ease, although it probably weighing tons.

The amazing feat goes unnoticed by the Gamemakers. They just sit there gossiping and stuffing their mouths without a care in the world. _Are you guys serious? _Peeta quickly becomes irate. _This is my only chance of survival and you don't even care. _The fire within him grows. He lifts a second ball by his free hand, waving them both in dangerously fast sideways circles beside his body.

And yet no one notices. They continue to chat freely and eat like the gluttons they are. They just continue to ignore the boy as if it was all a show to them. As if he's a silly monkey doing an old, boring trick.

Peeta feels his right hand subconsciously lose its grip. Not because it couldn't hold the weight any longer. But just to get the attention Peeta so deserved. And gets it he does.

The weight goes flying into the air in an arch, losing its momentum close to the roof and falling with a thunderous crash on the floor two feet away from the stage, collapsing the tiles beneath it. The whole stage goes into a hush, shocked. Seneca Crane's eyes double in size. Peeta doesn't know whether it's good that he got everyone to look at him or terribly bad that the Gamemakers most likely hate him now. The whole room stays quite for seconds, then Peeta begins to walk back to the wall he hid himself at, blending once again with its anterior. Some of the Gamemakers lose sight of him, some hurriedly start jotting down notes. And with this, Peeta storms out of the room, not caring whether they'll give him a ten or a negative infinity.

He doesn't even wish a nervous Katniss good luck when he passes her, still half disguised as a wall, and up the elevator to the twelfth floor. He makes it to his room before Haymitch and Effie could stop him, slamming the door shut.

* * *

_What did I do?_ Peeta thinks, washing himself in the shower. He's better accustomed to it now. _I just lost my chance__. I just made it impossible to get anything more than a five. I might as well just admit it. _He blatantly disrespected the Gamemakers, almost killing one of them. _They just were so inconsiderate, eating and talking when I had my life on the line. It doesn't matter either way. I wasn't gonna get a high score anyways. Throwing metal balls and acting like a wall aren't exactly skills that are gonna keep me alive in the arena…_The boy can't tell how long it's been, but he heard some noises outside and guesses Katniss has arrived a few minutes ago. _I'd be lucky if I survive the first day…_

His ire doused, Peeta solemnly walks into the dining room with a new change of clothes. Effie and Haymitch greet him with warm smiles sitting at the dining table. Katniss just continues to drink her soup.

"How'd it go, Peeta?" Effie asks as gently as she can. Of course, she didn't start eating without Peeta at the table.

Peeta sits down, and is a loss at words. _Horribly? Terribly? The worst imaginable? _He can't choose among the three.

"It didn't go good, did it?" Katniss asks, somehow she knew, probably because she saw him stomp out of the room so furiously.

"Not really." Peeta says, picking at his plate, trying to give off vibes of 'I don't want to talk about it'.

"It couldn't have gone as bad as Katniss's, boy." Haymitch catches on, changing the subject.

"Why?" Peeta asks. "What'd she do?" Katniss sighs at Haymitch's narration.

"She shot an arrow. _At _the Gamemakers." He says, chuckling.

"At their _pig_." Effie corrects. Peeta is surprised, trying hard to hide his laughter. _Well, I can understand, actually. They probably lost all interest after _me_, _he concludes. Katniss just rolls her eyes and continues slurping her broth.

* * *

After dinner, the group sits at the couch in front of the television and switch to the channel that the Capitol announces the tributes' scores on. Peeta and Katniss sit, fixated, dying to know what each got for their rude behaviors. First, Marvel's face pops up with his winning smile. He got a nine. _Not bad, _Peeta wonders what he showed them. What are Marvel's strengths? Did he show them his skills with weapons? Or survival skills? No, careers don't know much about survival.

Before Peeta could deduce anything, Glimmer's cheerful face is on the screen, her idiotic radiance almost blinding. She got a seven. A seven. _Seven? Really?_ Despite being one of the careers, the girl got a mediocre seven. But now that Peeta thinks about it, it's not very shocking. _She probably did shoot a few arrows. Cato might be laughing his ass off right now._

Soon enough, Cato's face becomes broadcasted, along with the double-digit number of eleven. This makes Katniss's eyes widen in awe. But Peeta isn't very surprised—impressed, yes—but not surprised. _He must've done some sword show. Or maybe mutilated a mannequin with an axe, _he probably wouldn't have settled for anything less than that anyways.

Then Clove's stolid face shows up, sober as ever. The number ten is beside her picture. Not unexpected either. _She probably threw a thousand knives at once or something. Hopefully not at the Gamemakers. _

The other tributes didn't seem very important to Peeta as their profiles showed across the screen. Iris got a seven just like Glimmer. _She must've tied one hell of a knot._ But what's surprising is that little girl, Rue, also got a seven. For a small figure like that, she must've done something quite big to get that number.

And before Peeta could even brace himself for it, his face is showing on the television. _Oh, no, _he thinks. _At least I'll get an eight…_ But he thinks too soon, and then the number ten appears beside his picture. A ten. Ten. No matter how long Peeta stares at it, it's still trying to sink in, even though Haymitch and Effie are patting him on the back for it, congratulating him. Even Katniss is smiling at Peeta proudly.

"Peeta! That's amazing!" Effie cheers, her lips in a huge grin, teeth shining vividly.

"They loved your show, Peeta!" Haymitch slaps a congratulatory hand on Peeta's back, waking him up.

"A ten?" Peeta can't bring himself to believe it.

"A ten, boy!" Haymitch says loudly. "Do I need to spell it out for you?" Haymitch almost does, but finally, an exalted grin appears on Peeta's face.

"I got a ten!" He shouts, elated. He's so thrilled it radiates through his face. Never has he been so happy in the past few weeks.

"Oh!" Effie says suddenly. "Hush, now. Katniss is up!" She says excitedly, mesmerized by the TV again. Katniss's impassive profile is shown on the screen. Everyone waits in anticipation for the score of the girl that sent an arrow flying right at the Gamemakers' food itself. Nothing can go in between them and their gluttony without consequence. But Peeta has thought too soon once again, and an eleven is shown beside her face.

"Oh, Katniss! That's wonderful!" Effie hugs Katniss, almost to the girl's chagrin, but then she hugs back. Now Haymitch is patting _her_ on the back. She almost seems stunned, shocked at what she got, but then her face floods with happiness, the only happiness Peeta has ever seen show on her face.

"They must've loved _your _show even better," Haymitch guffaws, the thought of disrespecting the Gamemakers hilarious. Peeta couldn't help but chuckle as well at the notion. _They just love rebels, don't they? _He thinks, a hand trying to cover his splendid smile, his eyes shining brighter than any star out in the night sky.

* * *

In his room, lying in his bed, Peeta replays all that his conscious mind couldn't process today. _I showed the careers I'm not just another lame tribute. _The thought makes Peeta smirk smugly. So many different emotions have filled him in such a short amount of time. Shock, defeat, dread, purpose, triumph, furiousness, exaltation, and everything in between. All of them in a few days' time. _I've got a chance. I've got a chance to win this. _The prospect of victory in the tournament paces closer and closer to Peeta with every turn.

He turns around on his side in his bed, Mabel's coin on his bedside catching his sight, glinting dimly in the moonlight. And then his azure eyes shut peacefully.


	5. What's So Funny?

Blissfully asleep, Peeta lies atop his bed, breathing lightly. A quiet knock sounds to his door, not nearly anything to wake him up from his calm slumber. The door opens to reveal an Avox; he quickly and efficiently tidies the room, picking up stray socks and placing things in their rightful place.

After the job, the Avox walks toward sleeping Peeta and nudges him gently. Only a soft groan comes out of the boy's mouth in response. The Avox nudges a tad harder. This makes Peeta awake, his eyes opening slowly. He sits up, stretching, his hands rubbing his bleary, blue eyes. The Avox gestures for him to follow. Peeta remembers when Effie told him that those attendants are called Avoxes. Once criminals, their punishments are the loss of their tongues and the loss of their human lives, servants to the Capitol. Just another thing the Capitol does to dominate the people of Panem, to show them they have power and that the citizens are insignificant things, obligated to sacrifice everything for them.

The Avox still motions for Peeta to come. He stumbles out and follows—not forgetting to grab the coin—still in his sleeping suit and his hair a disheveled mess.

* * *

"Ah! There you are, Peeta," Effie says, sitting at the dining table, along with a surprisingly sober Haymitch and a surprisingly pleasant Katniss. "Come, eat breakfast," the colorful figure says. Somehow, she always manages to stay at her peak. Always cheery and keeping the mood light. If it wasn't for her, the Games' morbidity would have sunk in a long time ago. Peeta couldn't help but admire that quality of hers.

He says good morning and sits down at the large table, beginning his exquisite breakfast.

"So as you all may now," Effie begins, her mouth vacant of any food. "Your interviews are tonight, and after a few hours of training, you guys will meet up with your stylists to look good for the part," she says excitedly, but then loses her cheerful air almost at once "And then tomorrow, the Games start…" she finishes. Katniss and Peeta nod affirmatively—they already knew, but for some reason wanted to hear it being said—and then they get back to their plates.

* * *

The training room seems less daunting than it did yesterday, the Gamemakers not being on their usual stage. At the entrance alongside Katniss, Peeta notices the careers have already formed their own congregation, following each other around like a unit, Cato being the leader of course. They mostly keep to the deadly weapons station, Glimmer brandishing a mace haphazardly. Although her incompetency, her District 1 status automatically grants her permission to be a member of their gang. Peeta wonders how long she'll survive in the arena.

Then he notices Clove and Cato in a heated brawl, their swords clashing and clamoring. Clove's sword being more slender and agile, and Cato's bulkier and stronger. They're almost a perfect match, the fierce battle catching many eyes from different stations in the gymnasium. But then Clove falls swiftly to the ground, defeated. She almost seems angry, until Cato extends a hand for her. She grabs it, smiling, and the brawl begins anew.

"Where should we start?" Katniss asks a fixated Peeta.

"What?" He asks, startled. "Oh. Um…why not the natural crafts station?" he suggests.

"Okay," she says indifferently.

They arrive at the lonely station, the instructor waking up to teach them about the many different methods to construct a teepee. Peeta couldn't hold his concentration for very long. His mind starts to drift, and time starts to zoom past him. In a few hours, they've gone to four different stations.

Along their way to their fifth station, the tributes pass the careers. Unfortunately, Glimmer's eyes catch sight of them, immediately brightening.

"Hey! Kid from Twelve!" she shouts to an unsuspecting Peeta, her hand in the air waving. Peeta turns to his side, so does Katniss. They see the cheery girl canter over to them, a slight skip in her step. She unexpectedly grabs a confused Peeta's arm around hers, catching him completely off guard, and starts to drag him with her back to the careers. "I want you to see my allies," she says, but stops in her tracks. "Oh," she notices Katniss. "If your friend here doesn't mind…" She looks expectantly at the two.

"I…it's okay," Katniss confusedly says, her eyebrows scrunched in bewilderment. "I'll see you later…" she says.

"Great!" Glimmer says, dragging Peeta along with no word of his consent. _What the hell is she thinking? _He thinks, baffled at her motives. She brings them closer and closer to the careers practicing. Clove and Cato continue to brawl, ignoring the girl bringing back her trophy. However, Marvel stops his spear-throwing and stands, examining Peeta when he arrives, checking whether he's worthy.

Peeta's nerves begin to act up. What did they think of his score of ten? Do they accept him? Did it ever even cross their mind to let him in the careers? Did they ever even _think _about him as one of them?

"Hey, guys," Glimmer addresses her crew, her arm still entangled in Peeta's. Clove and Cato ignore her, but Marvel acknowledges the girl. "This is…" She loses her train of thought. "Hey, by the way, what's your name?" she asks, genuinely at a loss.

Peeta looks at her nervously, almost unable to form words. "P-Peeta," he gets out. _Why is she doing this? Did she accept me? Am I part of the careers? _The members of the coveted crew intimidate him in a way. If they don't think him sufficient career material, would they really hesitate to kill him without a second thought? No. So it's all about his first impression. Peeta can't look like a coward in front of them; they'll only think him weaker.

Nevertheless, Cato and Clove continue to duel fiercely, too occupied in their battle to give Peeta and Glimmer any attention. However, Marvel speaks up.

"Aw. Did Glimmer tear you from your girlfriend?" he teases the District 12 tribute. Peeta gets caught off guard.

"S-she's not m-my girlfriend." He splutters out a few sounds. _Damn you, Haymitch. Why did I agree to act like I love her?_

"Oh, so you haven't asked each other out yet." He jabs at Peeta, a smirk across his face.

_Oh yeah, that's right. 'Cause I need the most sponsors I can get. But there aren't any cameras here, right? I don't have to say to _love _her._

"I don't—she's not—we don't have anything for each other," he lamely responds. A stutter box is the last thing he wants to be in front of them, but Marvel's making that hard to happen.

"Yeah, okay," he says sarcastically. "I'm sure you and her—"

"Oh, stop it Marvel!" Glimmer snaps at her partner. "He doesn't like her." She huffs indignantly. Marvel bites his lip in suppressed anger.

"Hey, Twelv—I mean, Peeta, I'm Glimmer." She brightens up again "But you can call me Glim," she says, her voice slightly deeper and her eyelashes aflutter.

"More like dim," Clove mumbles from the back, then her sword clashes with Cato's. Glimmer doesn't notice the stinging insult to her intelligence; however, Peeta inwardly chuckles.

"This is Marvel," the girl gestures towards Marvel, completely unaware of the joke. "That's Clove," she points to Clove battling a few feet from them. The girl from District 2 doesn't look their way. "And that's Cato," she indicates the large boy dueling with Clove, his sharp expression fixated on his partner. "Do you want to be part of our group?" Glimmer looks happily up at Peeta, her blue-green eyes bright as ever.

_What? Seriously? Is she really asking me to be a career?_

Clove falls down again with a crash, her expression shocked. "What?" she looks at Glimmer with an indignant face. "Who told you you could make a decision like that?"

"Well!" Glimmer begins, disgruntled. "I didn't know _you _made all the decisions here."

Clove glares at the girl with intense malice. She opens her mouth as if to spit venom.

_Ring! Ring! Ring!_ Before any bloodshed could occur, the bell to lunch sounds, and Peeta is washed with a feeling of relief.

Clove and Glimmer purposely push and shove each other on the way to their floors, grunting irately. Marvel chuckles at Peeta as he walks away.

"See you, Loverboy," he jibes with a swift wink, laughing with himself as he follows his district partner.

Cato, dropping his sword on the ground, glances over at Peeta, and only smirks, amused. Then he walks off haughtily behind the two furious girls.

_What the hell was that for? He laughed at me again._ The quiet chuckles and the inside laughs are beginning to annoy Peeta. _Why does he keep doing that? Am I funny to him?_ He sighs, his nerves beginning to cool down. _I still don't get it. Am I in or what?_ He simply stands there, unable to comprehend what any of that meant.

* * *

"What was that all about?" Katniss asks him in the elevator. They are alone, being the last District.

"I have no clue," he huffs, annoyed. "That Glimmer girl wants me in the careers." Katniss looks over at Peeta, her eyes widened in surprise.

"What?" she says, a little angrily, and Peeta regrets having told her.

"Yeah, I think she likes me or something," he says, looking straight ahead. Katniss seems to visibly redden with anger at this. "But I think Clove doesn't want me in or something," he puts in fast before she starts to raise her voice. "I don't even want to be a career," he lies. It's everything he's wanted since his first day being in the Capitol. But it cools her down so it seems the best choice. And by the looks of it, the white lie is most likely not going to have any consequences anyway. Apparently, he's not even going to be a career for it to matter.

* * *

After lunch, Peeta's prep team works vigorously on him within the confines of his bathroom. He sits on a chair while Tentra plucks his newly grown hairs right out of his skin using sharp tweezers held in her sea-green hands. Carmanep dabs and puffs Peeta's face with various powders, to give it a 'natural' glow. Voiliette clips and cuts the boy's hair at different layers, forming a flowing and handsome masterpiece with Peeta's blonde locks. The colorful three talk amongst each other, acknowledging Peeta's vibes of "I-don't-really-feel-like-talking."

It's just that his mind is too amuck with flying thoughts of this morning. Questions and questions. _Did they accept me? Did they not accept me? Does Glimmer have feelings for me? Does Clove utterly hate me? Am I really that funny to Cato? _All swarming around his head, pestering him.

Peeta thought he had such a good chance of impressing them with a ten. But apparently, he isn't wanted by Clove. And she seems like someone you don't want to mess with. Someone that's tough as nails and isn't afraid to bite back.

But then again, Glimmer also seems to share a few characteristics as her. When she wants things, she doesn't expect to have them handed to her like any other spoiled girl would. She knows she's going to have to fight for them, probably pretty familiar with discipline. And she looks like she has a fierce bite, too.

However, neither of the girls seems like leader material, too careless and haphazard. And Marvel definitely isn't leader material. He's just too much of a person that needs to be with someone else, to always have a partner and be dependent on being by that partner's side.

The only unwavering and self-sufficient member of the group is Cato. Always collected, but not soft-spoken. He seems to be the only one with enough strength to lead the pack. His sharp skills are so keen and his demeanor so intimidating; he probably doesn't have any trouble making other people follow him. He's the key to getting into the career circle. If there's even the smallest sliver of a chance left for Peeta to be accepted in with the careers anymore, it's probably hidden inside Cato's clenched fist. And somehow—Peeta doesn't know just how yet—he'll have to coax that fist open into a binding handshake of approval. Somehow, he'll have to impress the very boy he's wanted to avoid all this time.

* * *

Prim and posed, Peeta waits, along with Katniss and the other tributes, backstage to where Caesar Flickerman opens the interviews. None of the tributes are called out yet. The midnight blue man is still talking about the origin of the Games and the chariot show's spectacular performance two nights ago.

Katniss stands nervously, wearing a flowing dress that's more precious gems than it is fabric. Its shimmering quality gives her the resemblance of a flame whenever she moves. It's absolutely mesmerizing. She's going to get a lot of sponsors with that light show.

Although his dazzling partner, Peeta stands, arms crossed, too occupied to talk observing other tributes. His blond locks are stylishly slicked back, smooth and attractively glossy, save for a few strands that hang loosely down his face and beside his stunningly azure eyes. He wears black slacks and a classy black vest—both black as coal. And underneath is his dapper white dress shirt, laced with ultrathin, iridescent fibers that give a subtle diamond-like shining quality. He looks utterly suave, nothing like the simple baker he was in District 12. _It's amazing how creative the stylists can be_,Peeta thinks, as he realizes how the other tributes' apparels also personify their respective Districts.

Quite a distance from him—for they are the first ones up—District 1's tributes show its breathtaking quality with gemstones decorating their fabulous dresses, although Katniss's dress holds more sparkling stones than both. Marvel and Glimmer chat and laugh joyfully with each other as their attractive attributes shine through. Jewels glint gloriously on their clothes, not at all overbearingly bright or obnoxious as their personalities. Glimmer's golden ballroom dress glitters royally with laces and frills of _true _gold. Peeta can't help but remark on her inherent beauty. Her face is gorgeous and her smile, stunning. And the way she carries herself is surprisingly attractive, her chestnut hair pulled up in a very loose bun, brushed with glittering, golden particles. She is the personification of gold's utter splendor.

Laughing with her is a handsome Marvel, his brown-blond hair slicked up in a charming faux hawk, only giving more room to view his dazzling, green eyes. He's wearing a white suit and pants, glowing radiantly with that silver-like quality. The solid bow around his neck has many angular edges, glinting a thousand times with every move, not unlike a black diamond. It's not hard for Peeta to guess his redeeming attribute is going to be his charisma and charm. They must have fabulously skilled stylists, the both of them. From their heads to their toes, everything about the opulent duo sings luxury.

Peeta soon catches sight of District 2's tributes as well. He sees Clove wearing a long, bronze gown, dully shining as if the metal itself. There are countless folds that increase in number as the gown lengthens, giving it an air of regality. Her dark-brown hair is flowing down slightly below her shoulders, curling at the ends. It seems a tad redder than it was this morning, giving it a mahogany shade, mimicking her bronze dress. Her eyelids are touched with a wisp of black makeup that makes her look mature, even a little alluring. And her stature defines the words stateliness and composure, proud of her ability and skill.

Besides her stands Cato, collected as ever. Peeta couldn't help but notice his brilliantly tailored, black suit. It fits him perfectly, complimenting his broad shoulders and musculature. There are also subtle hints of metal in what he's wearing. From the steel rose that delicately rests in his chest pocket, to the steel-looking wristwatch encircling his forearm, to the steel-colored tie that adorns his neck, all of them accentuate his steel-like body, strong and unyielding. But although that intimidating quality, he's absolutely striking. He won't have any trouble getting the girls _and _the guys to swoon over him. His body just seems to have been born to look utterly handsome. He's probably going with the confident angle during the interviews, Peeta surmises.

_How do their stylists do that?_ Peeta wonders about the tributes' outlooks._ Completely change how a person seems on the outside. Do I really look different? I don't _feel_ it. _He still feels like that simple baker kid. But his clothes shout otherwise, and he's got to keep up his appearance.

* * *

Breaking his thoughts, Caesar begins the interviews and welcomes Glimmer to the stage. The cheery girl almost canters over to the seat beside him, a grin gracing her face. She shines with peppiness when answering Caesar's questions.

Soon enough, Peeta finds himself wandering to the edge of where the curtains hide you from the crowds' sight, to get a get a good view of her. He sees that her positive attitude causes many smiles to appear across the audience. They laugh warmly at every bubbly joke and funny comment. Peeta realizes she has a real gift of gab. When her life depends on it at least.

Pretty soon, a buzzer sounds, signaling the end of her interview, and she stands up, beaming at a loud applause. She bows and walks offstage towards Peeta, winks at him cheerily, then meets with her fellow careers.

Marvel is called and struts past Peeta into the adoring audience's view, waving at them as they clap. Caesar shakes his hand warmly and then proceeds to ask him questions about his life at District 1. The boy answers boldly and charmingly with a winning smile after every one. The crowd loves him, cooing at every cute thing he says and laughing at every joke he tells. He also has a power with words just as much as his District partner. The buzzer rings and he walks to the stage beside applause and affectionate cheers, smirking at Peeta, satisfied at how he showed off his charm.

Caesar calls Clove to the stage, next. In response, the regal girl purposefully walks out from behind the curtains and into the spotlight, waving slowly and modestly smiling. She answers Caesar's questions with certainty and gives small grins and thank yous after every compliment. She talks a lot about her training and how much effort she puts into being the best. This gets many impressed looks. Then the buzzer rings and she royally walks backstage to the career circle.

After the applause dies down, Caesar welcomes a confident Cato to the stage. The boy firmly shakes hands with his host and sits down to his seat. Caesar quickly begins the questions.

"So, Cato, how does it feel being the male tribute for District 2? It must be difficult, being the well-trained young man you are, to blend in, right?" he asks, a genuinely quizzical expression on his face.

Cato lightly chuckles at this. "Actually, I like the attention. I mean, who doesn't?" he says with a knowing smile and gestures to the crowd. His voice is cogent and compelling. The crowd laughs on cue. _Well, obviously the Capitol citizens like attention._ _Why else would they dress like that_, Peeta thinks.

"Haha!" Caesar laughs loudly. "So I get it you believe in yourself greatly. Is that right?" he asks the boy.

"Yes, I do," the boy simply states it. "I'm pretty sure I'm going to win this." This gets quite a number of impressed "oohs" from the audience.

"Are you?" Caesar genuinely smiles, his bright teeth vividly bright. "You're not worried about those tributes that scored high in their evaluations? Like those from District Twelve?" he inquires.

Cato chuckles at this again. "Not at all," he says, almost waving them off. Everyone in the crowd, including Caesar, raises their eyebrows, as if to say "Really?" Even Peeta does. _A ten really doesn't impress you? But what about Katniss's score? She got the same eleven you did, _Peeta thinks as if he's talking aloud. But the District 2 boy just laughs at those scores, undeterred, like he laughs at probably anything else having to do with Peeta.

For the next few minutes, Caesar continues to ask Cato simple questions, and Cato continues to answer them confidently and with an air of haughtiness. But before any more questions could be asked, the buzzer sounds.

"Well, it's been nice getting to know you, Cato. People, a round of applause for this young man!" The crowd claps loudly, happy having had the _honor_ to get to know the boy. Cato bows and walks backstage, but not without giving an almost evil smirk to Peeta.

_That guy is so conceited, _Peeta could only think of how full of himself Cato was. _It's probably his angle, but still. He acts like we're worthless things and he's the only capable one to win. As if it's not possible for anybody else to win. Like he's such a big deal. _Peeta curses Cato silently throughout the other tributes' interviews. But in truth, he's still very intimidated by the boy. _What am I thinking? I need to be a career. I need to be a career. _He scolds himself. _I need to impress Cato, not think about his towering ego. That's what I need to do to win. I need to get back home._

Soon enough, Katniss is called to the stage. Peeta gives a word of good luck when she nervously paces to her seat beside Caesar, almost tripping on her way.

Realizing he's next, Peeta tries strategizing his best approach with the interview. _Haymitch told me to be modest and funny or something like that. But how can I subtly tell Cato that I'm career material while answering Caesar's questions? The Games are tomorrow; I'm not going to have any time after this to impress the careers. Maybe I can't be subtle. Maybe I actually need to confront him in the Arena and tell him head on. _Maybe something blunt is the only thing that can penetrate Cato's blinding ego. But before Peeta could finish his plan, the very boy walks up and stops a few feet to his left, as if to get a good view of Katniss answering questions. _Like he has the decent respect to be interested in Katniss. _Peeta's arms instinctively cross in a defensive pose, trying not to look him in his eyes again. _What is he thinking? _Peeta wonders. Cato merely looks out at the stage, ignoring him.

"I wonder how I'll have to kill her," he says out of nowhere. This makes Peeta swiftly turn his head, eyes slightly widened. The expression coerces yet another chuckle from Cato, and then Peeta realizes the boy only said that to get his undivided attention.

"Why do you always do that? Laugh at me," Peeta says to Cato abruptly, irritated. He can't be afraid of him and cower in fear every time the boy talks. If anything will impress Cato, it's not being frightened by him. "Am I really that funny to you?" the baker asks, his eyes slightly narrowed. This closes Cato's mouth, but an amused smile still has the audacity to linger on his lips.

"Sorry if it made you feel special," Cato retorts, calm as ever. On the other hand, Peeta's blood starts to heat within him. "But you're just so much like a little kid. So innocent," his mocking smile still graces his face. "It's funny, really."

Peeta's ire grows. _What the hell did he just say?_ _A little kid? Is that why he's been silently laughing at me for the past few days? Because he thinks I'm like an innocent little kid? _"You think I'm innocent?" Peeta voices with unexpected venom. It's unlike the docile boy to spit back, let alone get furious at someone as intimidating as Cato. But if that vain brute gets to insult Peeta, then Peeta won't hesitate to speak harshly. "You don't know anything about me," he says, his eyes still narrowed.

Cato steps closer to the boy, leaning over him. "You couldn't hurt a fly," he says with a chuckle, towering over the baker.

"I'd kill a lion if I have to," Peeta says, his blood raging through his veins. _Who does he think he is, already challenging me before the Games even start._

"Please," Cato says, his dark eyes no longer have the power they used to on Peeta. "Don't make me laugh anymore than I can handle. I'm don't even think _you're_ going to make it the first day."

"Don't count on it," Peeta speaks through gritted teeth, their faces so close he's almost choking on the other boy's obnoxious ego.

Cato's smile only grows wider at this comment. "I just wonder how you got that ten," he says with the slightest air of curiosity.

Then the crowd cheers for Katniss as she leaves the spotlight, and Caesar calls Peeta to the stage.

"Pray you don't have to find out," that was the only thing that spat out of Peeta's mouth as he storms off—not even caring to look at that boy—although he had a million thoughts raging through his mind.

_That pompous, egotistical heap of arrogance! Ugh, I do all that's possible to get on the careers' good side and he thinks I'm a little kid! He thinks I can't do anything. He thinks I'm a worthless piece of tribute that deserves to die. None of the careers will accept me by what he thinks. Oh, I'll show him wrong when we get into the arena. I don't need any careers to keep me safe. _

As soon as the headlights show Peeta's face, and the cameras get a shot of him, the boy immediately shifts to a winning smile and a charming wave. The crowd loves it. Fueled by the fire Cato festered, he only feels more determined to woo the people of Panem. He and Caesar shake hands and sit down.

"Wow, Peeta! The crowd already loves you. Haha!" the blue man laughs joyfully. Peeta smiles in return.

"I didn't really think this many people would like me." He tries to pull off the modest and humble kid act. Apparently it works, because he hears a few "awws" flow through the crowd.

"Oh, don't sell yourself short, kid. You look like a million bucks," Caesar compliments him. Peeta gives a word of thanks in response, smiling warmly. _So far, so good_, Peeta thinks under that fabricated face. Everyone's buying the act, even though he's still smoldering with anger. "So, anyways," Caesar starts "I saw your score for your evaluation was a whopping ten. Tell us, how did you do that?" The crowd gives murmurs of agreement, dying to know that Peeta blatantly disrespected the Gamemakers.

Peeta takes a sharp inhalation, looking deliberately reluctant to divulge. "Let's just say…" he pauses to grab attention. "I have a lot of surprises up my sleeve," he says, knowing quite well that Cato must be staring at his back right now. The audience seems to have increasingly gotten curious of Peeta.

"Oh, Peeta. You don't give us any of the juicy details," Caesar says, feigning disappointment. "But anyways, we all wonder how you felt when you were reaped, that face was just so unreadable. I assume you must've been frightened out of your wits," he says.

"Well,…" Peeta draws the word out, circling his eyes around their sockets, like when you do to try to remember something. "Of course, I did feel scared in the beginning," he says, agreeing with Caesar, his head bowed down slightly. This coerces a few more "awws" from the audience. "But now that I got that needed training, I think I'm ready to take on anything—or anyone for that matter." He unnecessarily emphasizes the last words, just to jab them at Cato.

"You really think so? And while we're on the topic of training," Caesar says "I've heard from various Gamemakers that most non-career tributes stay _away_ from their counterparts during training—you know, because they'll get too attached otherwise—but, you and Katniss seem to have kept…affectionately close to one another, am I right?" he looks knowingly at Peeta, who could only try his hardest to blush. The boy acts flustered, darting his eyes here and there. And the crowd releases a chorus of suspicious sounds at this bite of information.

"Well, maybe…" he smiles sheepishly, playing a cute, lovable boy. "But there's no room for those types of feelings anymore," he says, looking straight at Caesar, smiling. He knows he's basically throwing the lovers chemistry Haymitch conceived for him and Katniss out the window, but there are more important things to deal with, like pride. "All there's room left for is winning." He leaves that last word with an air of certainty.

_Ring! Ring! Ring!_ The all too familiar buzzer sounds.

"Well, you seem like a fierce opponent, Peeta!" Caesar says, genuinely satisfied at meeting him. "Good luck to the tributes that have to face _you_ in the Arena."

_Yeah, good luck, Cato. _

Peeta grins at the extremely intrigued audience of Capitol citizens cheering loudly as he waves them goodbye, walking offstage. A few yards before him stands Cato, his jaw clenched tight, almost to nonexistence. He seems angry, no, furious. Peeta could only smirk as he brushes past him, not giving him the time of day.

_Serves you right, asshole. _

* * *

Peeta doesn't even want to see the interview broadcasting. He lies on his bed, exhausted, Mabel's coin on his nightstand as always. _At least Haymitch wasn't that mad_, he recalls when his mentor told him it didn't make a big difference when he said he couldn't think about feelings. He probably screwed the star-crossed lovers dynamic, but it'll amend itself with time. Plus, he'll get sponsors for his charm also, so that'll offset the damages.

But what really aggravates Peeta is that boy.

Cato.

The very name makes Peeta want to punch something. It would be an understatement to say he felt devastated when he found out the boy only thinks if him as a little kid, a mouse compared to him. All of Peeta's efforts were on trying to get into the career circle. Cato was his last chance to impress someone with authority. And he finds out that the once intimidating boy deigns him a naïve kid. Innocent. Immature. Childish.

Peeta's made his life depend upon being a career. It was either that or lose the Games. Have strong allies, or die somewhere in a pit, forgotten. Be protected by skilled people, or get killed the first day. So what chance does he have left of surviving anymore? He can't live on sponsors, and he definitely can't live off the ground. Almost nothing from the survival training actually sunk in to his memory, he's been too preoccupied with impressing the careers. But his odds of getting into the career circle now have plummeted all the way down to zero, and he's left at rock bottom.

Exasperated, Peeta sighs and turns off the lights before slumping back to bed and attempting to sleep. _Ugh. Whatever, it's not like anyone cares if I come back, except maybe for Mabel. But so many more people will be happy if Katniss lives. Her sister, her mom, Gale, even Dad who buys squirrels from her. I won't make a big difference if I die. Yeah. It'll be better if Katniss lives._

* * *

Peeta tosses and turns for what seems like several hours, but it's only been fifty minutes since he's closed his eyes. His body and mind are both fatigued to their limits, but his soul stays restless. He's already had two grueling nightmares tonight and wants it to end. Pulling a pillow to his face, the boy attempts to drown out the noises of his agonized screams. He still remembers them vividly.

"Ugh!" Peeta yanks the pillow off of him. "Can't I just have some sleep!" he shouts at the darkness.

_Oh yeah_, the boy reminds himself. _Peace is the last thing I'm gonna see in the next few weeks._


	6. Enigmatic Decisions

Centuries.

That's how long it felt it's been when Peeta sees the sun rise up from its den out his window. Dark, gloomy clouds mostly shroud it, like a curtain. The boy hasn't had a fragment of sleep and the sun dares to make it day?

Exhausted yet restless, and overwrought with emotions, Peeta drags himself out of his bed and enters his bathroom. He's more accustomed to the bizarre workings and manages to coax a steady stream of tepid water.

His brain is still trying to get to sleep. Nothing focuses, everything's murky. So many thoughts are flinging through his mind, nothing is clear. He almost forgets it's the day of the Games. But the inevitable strikes him all over again. And the unmistakable dread hits.

_I hope it's painless…when I die._

* * *

Effie and Katniss have already assembled at the dining table, eating lethargically and silently away at their decadent meals. Peeta greets them softly and sits down at the table, the coin in his pocket stinging with coldness, leeching away any of his natural body heat.

Haymitch soon arrives at the table, as sober as can be. They all are eating, not a word being exchanged among the four. The food tastes like nothing, bland, not exciting to the taste buds as it used to be.

Trying to relieve some of the tension, Effie and Haymitch spew random bits of advice to the two tributes. Katniss and Peeta both nod seriously at their words, knowing it's probably the last words they will ever hear from them.

* * *

It's raining heavily by the time the group gets to the hovercraft. They exchange quick farewells, and the tributes enter the foreboding contraption.

Inside, it's slightly dim, but not nearly enough to disguise the frightened faces of the tributes sitting inside. The only empty seats available are far from each other, and when they separate, Katniss looks at Peeta with an almost scared expression. But then the moment passes and the two split paths.

Peeta sits in between two scrawny tributes, having a good view of most of the careers, except Cato. The older boy is seated all the way down, out of Peeta's line of sight. _He's probably made a mental note to kill me the first chance he gets, since I'm so much like a little kid, _Peeta thinks, mocking the boy._ Okay, when the Games start, I have to get something tiny from around the Cornucopia quick, and then run towards the forest like hell. Just like Haymitch said. But not too close to the Cornucopia, the careers will probably be there, killing every breathing thing in sight. _Peeta wonders if he could've been one of them. If he was accepted, would he have conformed to their animalistic ways? Would he not have hesitated to slaughter a defenseless tribute? He mentally shakes those haunting thoughts away and his line of vision catches sight of Glimmer sitting a few yards off in front of him.

She notices him and smiles joyfully and…knowingly? Peeta is confused at her expression, and he must have shown it vividly enough for her to notice. She leans a foot closer, despite the few yards' difference between, as if she's telling a secret. _What does she have to say_, Peeta wonders.

And then she mouths two words.

"_You're in."_

The words were comprehended far after they were mouthed, and even though the time taken to decipher them, Peeta still sits confused, unable to understand why they were ever made.

_What? Did she say I'm in? A Career? No. No, no. What am I thinking? She-she couldn't have said that, _although she still smirks at him gleefully. _No. She must've said something else. She must've said…"pouring". Like the rain. Wait, but why is she talking about the weather?_

_Or maybe she said..."syringe". Like those things those people are injecting. _Men and woman wearing lab coats walk about purposefully, sticking needles in arms. They're injecting the tracking devices. And by the looks of it, they're painful.

_Wait, but why would she even say that? Could she have said something else…"warrant"? "urine"? _The guesses get wilder and wilder as Peeta's mind starts to lose it, not understanding at all anymore what she said.

Is it true?

Did she really mouth the words "You're in"? Was that sliver of a chance actually met? Did Cato have a miraculous change of mind? Or maybe it was another member of the gang that actually has more power than the towering boy. The chance to find out has long since vanished. Glimmer has lost interest and is currently analyzing her nails, a curious expression painting her face, completely oblivious to the outside world.

_No. Why would the all great Cato ever let me in? He has no motive to. I'm probably already dead to him. Glimmer said urine and that's it. I don't know why, but she said urine. She's weird like that._

In spite of that enlightening conclusion, that oh-so frightening intimation, doubt, still lingers in the back of Peeta's mind, unyielding.

* * *

The boy from District 12 has been lead into a blindingly white, cramped room where his stylist, Portia, accompanies him. All there is is a small table with a few chairs and a circular platform where he is to stand when the Games will begin.

Portia immediately goes to hug him when he enters, her feather earrings shimmering in waves of iridescent light.

He returns the favor, which slightly placates his rapidly beating heart. But just thinking about the Games twists his stomach into knots again.

It's happening. The Games will begin in less than five minutes and he'll probably be dead in less than five hours. He hugs back, just like with his father in the Justice Building, desperately clinging onto something, anything. They embrace silently; there is no need for words.

And way too soon, a voice informs the tributes to stand on the platforms. Portia breaks the hug, wiping off tears.

"Peeta, I forgot to ask you," she says, clearing her throat. "Would you like to carry a token from your District?" she asks, trying to force her tears back.

Peeta recalls the coin. "Yeah," he says, bringing it out and showing it to her. She analyzes it for a second, and approves it.

"Don't ever lose it, Peeta," she says, a small, faint smile playing on her lips.

"I won't," he says solemnly. And with that, Peeta hesitantly makes it to the platform. Before another thought could occur in his mind, a glass cylinder encases him. The platform ascends all too quickly, and then Portia's face is lost to darkness.

* * *

The only thing Peeta can hear is his rapid and uneven breathing, straining his nerves even more than they already were. It's pitch-black. He motions his hands to the edges of the glass, desperate to sense something, to make sure he's still where he thinks he is.

_It's okay…It's okay. When they release us, get something and run. Get something and run. Get something and run. _He repeats the words religiously, the only thing to keep him sane.

And from the pitch-dark ceiling, comes a harsh, unexpected light.

The platform rises into the Arena.

Its light blinds Peeta for several seconds, but soon enough, everything falls into place. The tributes line a vast, open field, forests encompassing the perimeter, except for the far end, where it drops off into the unknown. And there's a large, shimmering lake to the right of him. A timer starts counting down the minute they have to take in the surroundings.

The first familiar face Peeta notices is Cato's. _Oh God. _The career is crouched down in a runner's position. His face looks determined, almost evil. His muscles tensed, ready to bolt out of that container any second. He unnerves Peeta. But nothing could come close to how petrified Peeta feels when he notices the baker staring. And, not surprisingly, he smirks coyly.

Peeta quickly turns his head, vexed. He didn't know he was capable of feeling aggravation at this time, what with all the other emotions running rampant through his head. Even though he can't see him, Peeta still feels his irritating gaze burning the back of his neck. He could almost hear him chuckling over at Peeta's '_innocence_'.

_I swear, that boy—_

_Bam! _The sound goes off, initiating the start of the Games, and simultaneously, mayhem's beasts have been set loose. Peeta's legs involuntarily sprint to the Cornucopia, him not knowing what's happened until a few yards have gone by. It's a race to the treasures. No, that's an understatement. It's an utterly mad sprawl. The tributes lucky to get their hands on weapons slaughter away at others; the ones that don't have any other means resort to hand-to-hand combat.

Before seconds, blood is spilt, screams split the air, and the ugly sounds of metal cutting flesh meet Peeta's ears. The first thing he finds is a small, dark backpack. With that on his back, he makes a run for the nearest side with forest, dodging dangerous projectiles. Everything is insane. The sheer bedlam could make someone lose their mind, tremulous canons ripping the air every ten seconds. Tributes are killing mercilessly, desperate to not be prey. How can somebody ever enjoy watching this?

Peeta's heart beats at a million times per second as he dashes, and then he sees Glimmer battling with another male tribute. Her words cut through Peeta's memory.

"_You're in."_

And he stops dead in his tracks, in the midst of all the chaos. _What if she really did say I'm…in? How the hell am I supposed to find out before it's too late? _He stands there, conflicting thoughts raging through his muddled, adrenaline-packed mind. It was in that moment of indecisiveness, a girl sneaks behind him, a dagger held in her hand. The girl is merely feet away as she extends her arm back in position to bring it down into his back.

"Ah!" Cato comes crashing down on her with his sword. Peeta looks behind him, startled. Cato plunges his sword deep in the girl's body, a menacing expression marring his face. Peeta's paralyzed at the sight. _Oh shit. He's going to kill _me_ now. _He regains feeling in his legs and starts to run the opposite direction.

"Hey, where the hell do you think you're going?" Cato yells, grasping Peeta's shirt and pulling him back roughly. He seems furious. Peeta just looks at him with absolutely terrified eyes, speechless. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" he asks, and pushes the dead girl's dagger on to Peeta's chest, wordlessly telling him to grab it. Peeta shakily takes the weapon. It has no blood on it; it's pure, for now. "Take it and _kill_ someone," he hisses through gritted teeth, irate at how the other boy let his guard down so quickly. He stomps off, taking away any and every non-career tribute's life that comes in his path.

Peeta still stands there like an idiot, utterly dazed at what happened. _What the—?_

"Peeta!" A call from his side snaps him back to the real world. It's Glimmer bashing another boy on his head with a mace. The boy falls to the ground dead and she giggles happily, waving at Peeta as the boy's brains spill out from his cracked skull.

"I told you you're in!"

* * *

The soiled, dark ground has been littered with the repulsive aftermath of the massacre. Pretty soon, the hovercrafts came and teleported all the corpses away, eerily leaving the Arena barren, although the smell of death and rotting flesh still lingers in the air.

Peeta remembers Cato's command to "kill" someone. In a way, Peeta did honor that commitment.

He recalls the thin girl, her eyes swollen with insanity, screeching a war cry as she ran towards him. She had a knife in her fist, brandishing it wildly in the air. Peeta stood there, dagger in his hands, stunned as she lunged on him, toppling them both to the ground. Peeta's breath escaped his lungs. Then suddenly, she stopped her flailing, her face a contorted grimace of shock. Peeta doesn't comprehend what happened, until his eyes trailed down her abdomen to find his dagger.

Lodged in her gut.

She fell atop her doom. Peeta unwillingly killed her. He did what Cato ordered him to do, and he felt horrible.

Dislocating the dagger and rolling her bleeding body off of him, he shakily stood up, his breathing rapid and uneven and his eyes extremely wide. The dark blood flowed from her stomach hideously as she took her last breaths, every one after the other becoming more and more painful and labored, until they finally ceased, forever.

Is this how death looked like? A miserable body, still, as if the life was siphoned out of it. Is this what death did? Leave an empty, hollow carcass with the exact, same expression there was when the body lost its soul. Did Peeta really do this? Destroy a family's hope of their daughter ever returning, and, in turn, become a full-fledged career, a true monster.

"Hey! Loverboy!" It seemed as if it is when Cato calls his name from afar, yanking him back to reality. "Get to work, slacker," he puts a dash of venom in that last word when he walks away, aggravating Peeta's nerves.

Nevertheless, reluctantly obedient, Peeta proceeds to carry the Cornucopia's supplies over to the career camp beside the lake. But then again, shouldn't he be elated he's a career? Peeta ponders the notion as he walks over to the shimmering lake. There's a scrawny boy that Peeta sees on the campsite. He's from District 3, Glimmer told Peeta. Apparently, the only reason he's not dead right now is he can reactivate the mines set by the platforms the tributes have entered into the Arena on. And he's going to set them around the pile of supplies the careers are creating, so no one except them can reach the heap. He seems so insignificant, compared to the careers, so weak. If he could get into the careers, it isn't hard to believe Peeta could, right?

How did it all happen, though? How—by some freak lapse of judgment—did Peeta get accepted into the careers? Did the ten he score really woo the group? Was it enough to impress them? But even then, who would defy the word of _Cato_? The menacing boy obviously didn't think Peeta as career material last night. Or did he? He never really made it exactly clear whether Peeta was worthy or not, right? Was it _him _that decided Peeta's fate? It couldn't be anyone else in the career group; none of them have enough power over people.

So it was the boy from District 2 that _wanted _Peeta in?

This is too difficult to believe for Peeta as he sets a wooden crate filled with medical aid kits in a pile to the side of the campsite, his black backpack following. _He would've never chosen me…_ he concludes it with that as he notices the whole group has rendezvoused to the campsite.

Marvel sits on a rock, completely focused on sharpening his spear with a flint stone, his hair reflecting a dirty-blond light in the scorching sunlight. Peeta could swear the temperatures have increased by ten degrees in the last ten minutes! The baker's thin shirt is plastered to his chest, sticky from the sweat emanating from his body. Everything is so harshly bright, the grass giving off an almost golden-green color from the strong light. Clove seems to have a hard time coping with the heat.

She's ravenously chugging a water canteen from a crate in the pile of the supplies. Then she pours the rest on her overheating face, desperately trying to get cool. Her jeans and jacket don't seem to be giving her a good time about it. She quickly strips from her jacket, revealing a dark-green tank-top underneath, shaking off the water droplets from her face and dark, braided hair. She notices the District 3 boy basically ogling at her then gives him a sharp expression. Bitterly being told to get back to work by the girl, the small boy swiftly averts his head back to the mine he's working on, utterly embarrassed.

The scrawny tribute has a head of very short, close-cropped, dark-brown hair, Peeta notices. He also wears thin, wiry glasses, perking them up the bridge of his nose every ten seconds. He still looks very insignificant compared to the other Careers, Peeta thinks. And the baker can't shake off that if the boy's been chosen to be a career, no matter how small, then it shouldn't be impossible for Peeta to have gotten in. The small kid looks just as innocent—if not more—than does Peeta. So why does it all still seem so surreal?

Breaking Peeta from his thoughts, Glimmer drops a box of dried fruits beside the baker, causing a loud thump.

"Don't you think we've lifted enough stuff today, Peeta?" she asks, a complaining expression across her face, mock-rubbing her hand on her back. Her chestnut hair is tied back in a ponytail, and she wears a simple, pink t-shirt along with jeans. There's a silver bow and sheath full of arrows strung around her shoulders, and Peeta remembers her being so thrilled to have gotten her incompetent hands around them, jumping with animated joy as she does to almost everything. She seems to over-exaggerate all of her emotions, Peeta's noticed. Whenever something insignificantly positive comes her way, she bursts in delight; and whenever the slightest provocation or insult actually penetrates through her dense head, she slumps into a tiny temper tantrum. She just seems too unstable for Peeta's liking. What if there are only a handful of tributes left and the stress gets to her? What if she just snaps, being the most rash of the group? Will she run away in fear of being killed? Or will she murder someone in their sleep, when they're least expecting it? Things that Peeta can't decipher about people by his analyses deeply deter him. And not knowing what this girl is capable of seems to frighten him a little bit.

"I really just want to kill someone with these arrows already." But all the fear leaks out of him as soon as he hears her words. _Does she really not know she's horrible at archery? _Peeta begins to question whether it was a smart choice to accept Glimmer as a career in the first place, even if she _is _from District 1. Cato would've never chosen her in without some reason. Maybe Marvel refused to be a career without her, so the towering boy had to allow Glimmer as one, too. Is that reason even compelling enough for the _great Cato _to accept Glimmer?

And speak of the devil, here he is ordering every member around like he runs the place.

"Marvel," Cato says with a commanding tone, pointing with his gleaming metal sword at the lake, his blond hair shines brightly in the harsh sunlight. "Secure the lake. Check to see if there're tributes or anything else valuable." He shifts his attention to Glimmer idling. "Glitter girl, sort out the supplies pile and move the foods and weapons closer to the tent," he orders to a hurt Glimmer, insulted by the nickname. She pouts, but nonetheless begins her duty.

"Three," Cato calls the District 3 boy. The boy quickly stands up, nervous. "Keep doing what you're doing," Cato dismisses him. The scrawny kid sits down again, relieved.

"Clove, Loverboy," the leader addresses the two. Peeta is visibly annoyed at his new nickname. Cato notices Peeta's fumes and smirks jeeringly at the boy. This only makes the baker's blood start to race. "Both of you, go find some firewood in the forest for tonight." And with that, he haughtily jogs to assist Marvel with his duty, carrying his nauseous ego along with him.

* * *

For the duration of their task, Clove has been fully disinterested with Peeta, giving him the shortest responses possible to his foolish attempts at conversation, picking up firewood and trying as hard as she can to avoid him without losing earshot. It was evident she doesn't enjoy his company. As Peeta was collecting sticks from the pine needle-littered ground, he couldn't help but remember that she was the first career to voice her dislike on Peeta, albeit indirectly. He remembered Glimmer asking him if he wanted to be a career in the Training Room. And he recalled Clove's obvious disappointment.

It all confuses Peeta. If even just a single member of the careers didn't prefer to call Peeta one of them—and this particular one being the partner of the pack's leader—then how in the world did he get in? The only one he knows that visibly likes Peeta's presence is Glimmer, and then again, it doesn't seem to be for his skills. Does the overly cheery girl really have that much power to swat Clove's opinion away like that? And most of all, was it really Cato that determined the winning judgment? How could it have been?

All these unanswered questions swimming through Peeta's muddled mind start to irritate him with their annoying banter, incessantly voicing their inquiries every second within Peeta's psyche. The boy mentally sighs, exasperated, as the two walk up to the camp.

* * *

Clove and Peeta reach the campsite, twigs piled high in their arms. It seems like it's been an hour at most, but the artificial sun has been in a hurry to greet the horizon. A fabricated sunset has formed over the Arena's sky. The Gamemakers _must _have made that happen. Nevertheless, Peeta relaxes instantly at the beautiful sight, his mind slightly placated.

Glimmer, Marvel, and Cato all sit around a low fire pit, casually chewing on meals retrieved from the pile of supplies. The heap of crates looks very organized now, thanks to Glimmer. And it has shallow holes dug up in random spots around it; they're probably for the mines the District 3 boy is rewiring. Speaking of the kid, Peeta catches sight of him eating and working on the contraptions beside the tent, aloof, not bringing much attention to himself. Peeta feels bad for the small boy, but knows being in the career circle is probably the only reason for him being alive. It's probably the only reason the baker is alive as well.

"Finally, you guys are here," Marvel says from his spot by the pit, annoyed. "Did you have a nice walk in the park, Loverboy?" he sneers, jabbing at Peeta's loyalty to the pack. The question stings Peeta. Even if he wonders how he got into the career circle himself, Peeta's still glad; and the only thing Marvel's doing by implying that Peeta took his time like a lazy slacker is dissolving that thin string of alliance. He's making it difficult to keep the however so 'friendly' relationships he has with the careers.

"Shut up, Marvel," Cato says coolly, giving him a bored look, but it hides a deep iciness behind it. Marvel zips his mouth shut, shooting the ground in front of him with a glare. Peeta inwardly chuckles, a small smile playing on his lips; Marvel would never defy the word of Cato. And it's in this lapse of judgment, Cato catches Peeta smiling, and mischievously smirks himself.

_Shit. I can't show him he's funny! _Peeta scolds himself when he notices the District 2 boy smirking._ I can't empower him like that. _The baker quickly averts his gaze and shifts his expression to one of indifference as he and Clove walk to the pit, dropping their work's content beside it. Peeta can't let Cato know he influences him in _any _way possible. The worst thing he can do is enable Cato to walk all over him like that. He has to stand his ground, unable to be deterred. _He's not funny. I can't give him the privilege to my attention._

Cato switches his sight to Clove, telling her to form a fire, although a small, amused smile has the nerve to stay on his lips.

Once the fire is ignited, the group—except the District 3 boy—assembles around the warm blaze, finishing their dinner. The sun has hurriedly vanished from the sky, leaving the faint stars to light the Arena. Glimmer and Marvel sit on both sides of Peeta, Glimmer a little closer than comfortable. Clove and Cato sit on the opposite side of the burning tinder.

Before any conversation could be mustered, a burst of sound from the air demands everyone's attention. It's the anthem playing. Every dead tribute's face is shown on a holographic screen. Twelve profiles are put up—Katniss's not being one of them—and soon enough, the music desists, and the screen dissipates, leaving the Arena eerily quieter and darker than was before. Peeta mentally sighs at the fact his District partner is still alive.

"Happy your girlfriend isn't dead, Loverboy?" Marvel jeers at him again, somehow reading his mind. This stings Peeta harshly. He doesn't want to lie that he loves Katniss, but then again he doesn't want to destroy his whole base of sponsors. He looks up at Cato, hoping for him to shut Marvel up again, but he just sits there, smirking and amused at the baker getting poked fun at about his love life. That stupid smile ignites a furious flame inside Peeta. _Oh, now you don't want to help me out? _He tries to telepathically yell at Cato. The boy seems to have gotten the message, but doesn't act on it, enjoying the show unfolding before him. _You asshole, _Peeta mentally spits at him.

"Oh, just leave him alone," Glimmer indignantly says while stringing an arm through Peeta's in comfort. Clove merely sits in her seat, her arms crossed, disinterested in the whole conversation.

"Aww. Did I hit a heart string?" Marvel continues with his jibes. "What would your girlfriend say if she saw you cuddling with a career?" He looks at him evilly. This escalates Peeta's provoked anger, but he just sits there, dumbstruck at what to say. What _can _he say to that? He can't deny it; that would collapse his sponsor base. And he doesn't want to lie that he loves Katniss, it just wouldn't be right to the people of District 12 watching, especially Mabel. So instead of protecting his pride, he sits there like an idiot, speechless.

"Didn't he say he didn't have anything for her?" Cato finally speaks up from the other side of the blaze, laying back on his elbows, his expression calm and knowing. That already-familiar smirk still has the audacity to dwell on his lips. His words seem to have pushed Marvel's ego into a dark corner.

"Whatever," the boy from District 1 says, quieter, his eyes trained on the ground.

Peeta almost allows an amused smile to escape him; but he catches himself and buries the stupid urge deep inside. _Wait, that jerk just basically told the whole of Panem that I don't like Katniss, _Peeta realizes. He probably severely damaged Peeta's sponsor base, the thing Peeta's been painstakingly building for the past few days. Even if he did save Peeta from Marvel's jibes, what's happened is far worse than getting slightly insulted, because at least the sponsors would still have believed Peeta and Katniss's love. Now they're probably grunting in anger, furious they've been deceived. The baker glares at Cato, imagining him being tortured. Hopefully, the telepathic connection the two seem to share extends into the physical plane as well.

It doesn't seem like it when Cato looks into Peeta's eyes smugly, telling him something.

"_You're welcome."_

The baker quickly shifts his gaze to the fire, a scowl penetrating his face. _You're welcome? That asshole. I'm not grateful for that!_ Peeta could almost feel Cato's mental chuckle; somehow, the two really do seem to have a telepathic connection, Peeta realizes. Why does he always aggravate the baker? The boy from District 2 used to be intimidating, now he's only irritating.

"Wow, it's getting really cold," Glimmer says, breaking Peeta from his rants on the District 2 boy, rubbing her bare arms with her free hand. The temperatures _have _certainly decreased, but Peeta isn't wearing a jacket and he still feels fine. In spite of that, she inches even closer to him, touching her shoulder and leg to his, acting unaware of her actions. Clove rolls her eyes, disgusted at Glimmer's flirtations. Marvel couldn't care less about his District partner's actions. Peeta can only mumble a response, taking a bite from a turkey leg to escape from having to respond coherently. Glimmer giggles at the boy's cuteness, her hand to her mouth. Peeta blushes lightly, unknowing of what to do.

_Why is she doing this, _Peeta thinks, confused. _What is she trying to get out of it?_ What are this girl's motives? Does she even have any? Has she been trying to get on Peeta's good side, or is she just that dense that she forgot only one person will be coming out of this arena alive and that there's no use in being a couple? She is so confusing.

"You're cute." Glimmer chuckles, amused at Peeta's flustered stutters. She brings her hand to his, pretending she's doing it because of the cold. Peeta's cheeks begin to burn stronger than the fire.

"Marvel, Glitter girl," Cato abruptly says, breaking the awkward tension in half. "You guys have watch duty. I'm going to sleep." And with that unexpectedly said, he walks off to the tent, brushing past the District 3 boy. Clove follows him in, grateful to leave the presence of Glimmer. Peeta was unable to catch sight of his face as he went inside, unable to mentally communicate with him. Glimmer huffs indignantly, crossing her arms, a sour expression plastered on her face. The moment between her and Peeta was lost. Marvel just sits there, slightly annoyed, but aside that indifferent. It's still amusing to know Marvel would never disobey the career leader.

Happy for Cato's interruption, Peeta quickly finishes swallowing and practically scurries to the tent, leaving Marvel and Glimmer to their own devices. He sees the District 3 boy sadly fiddling with a mine and stops in his tracks, a few feet to the side of him.

"You know, you can go to sleep, too," Peeta says to the sorrowful kid. The boy looks up at him, startled.

"O-oh, okay…" he mumbles, a small smile across his face.

Peeta can't help but pity him as he walks inside the large tent. He's just so small next to the large, intimidating careers. And who knows how long he's going to last after he's done with his job. The careers wouldn't need him anymore and Peeta's pretty sure they wouldn't hesitate to end his life, just how they didn't hesitate to kill all those tributes earlier this morning. Peeta mentally shivers at thoughts of that girl that he murdered when he contemplates on where to sleep.

The spacious tent accommodates six sleeping bags—for the six members of the pack. The bags are placed in two columns of three, and Clove sits in the far side. Knowing Clove, Peeta chooses the sleeping bag on the opposite corner. Hopefully, she won't despise him too much for being so close. Unfortunately, that same sleeping bag lays right next Cato's, who's already changed and slumbering inside of it.

_Great, I get to sleep next to the jerk, _Peeta thinks as he climbs into his sleeping bag. _That asshole probably threw away every sponsor I had by telling everyone I didn't like Katniss._

_But then again, he did help me out of those awkward conversations. Wait, what the hell am I thinking? _Peeta shakes his head, shutting his eyes strongly. _That jerk still thinks I'm a little kid. He doesn't deserve my thanks. _

But a frivolous question still lingers in the back of Peeta's mind, pestering him, unrelenting.

_So why did he choose me…?_

* * *

The stillness of the night dares anything to break its eerie silence. Marvel and Glimmer have been wordlessly sitting on a large stone for the past few hours, watching over the career campsite. Inside the tent, the only sounds that can be heard are the rhythmic breaths of four sleeping tributes.

And soon enough, the nightmares begin.

Peeta shuffles in his sleep, softly grunting at an unknown presence. His breathing quickens and his movements become louder. The annoying sounds wake a grouchy Cato up from his hibernation.

The District 2 boy groans crankily, frustrated at whatever has woke him up. He turns around to the sight of a disgruntled Peeta, squirming in his sleep. He groans once again, a little bit more frustrated than before. Irritated, he drags himself from his bag to the now loud boy.

Once he reaches Peeta, he roughly shakes the boy's shoulders.

"Shut up, I'm trying to sleep," he says to him, agitated. Peeta only gives a face of utter distress in response, whimpering slight calls of help.

_The fuck? _Cato thinks. _He's having a nightmare, _The District 2 tribute realizes. He chuckles at the boy's weakness, making a mental note to jab it at him whenever necessary. He likes to belittle Peeta, make him annoyed. That's why he tells Marvel to shut up whenever he teases Peeta. He wants to be the one to make the kid aggravated. It relieves his stress, and it's just plain funny seeing the boy irritated.

Breaking Cato from his wandering thoughts, Peeta abruptly jolts up, gasping for air, his eyes wide in fear. He looks around to see Cato beside him.

"What do you want?" He asks the District 2 boy blatantly, still disoriented. His hair is a disheveled mess of blond strands. His eyes are bleary.

"You woke me up with your stupid mumbles," Cato remarks, putting on an annoyed face.

"What?" Peeta says, confused. "I-I was…mumbling," he stutters, embarrassed.

"Yeah, it was something like 'Oh, please save me. I'm a weak little kid.'" he gibes at the boy, an amused smirk across his face. Peeta is caught off guard, having just woken up; he can't shield himself with the brick wall he usually builds everyday. He narrows his eyes in fury and opens his mouth as if to spit venom.

"What happened?" Glimmer peeks in the tent, concern written on her face. "We heard some noises." Marvel joins her side.

"Nothing—It's fine," Peeta says, trying to go back to sleep. Glimmer yawns loudly, stretching her arms.

"Can we switch now?" She asks like a little kid. Cato rolls his eyes, but gives a grunt of assent nonetheless, grabbing his sword bringing himself up. "Yay!" Glimmer says, jumping into her sleeping bag. Marvel smiles happily while climbing into his himself.

Cato stands up, staring impatiently at Peeta. "C'mon," he says, telling him to get up.

"Why?" Peeta disobediently asks.

"You're already awake. Or do you want to go back to your nightmares?" He asks, arching an eyebrow.

"What? Peeta has nightmares," Glimmer asks, popping up from her sleeping bag, suddenly interested.

"Loverboy has nightmares?" Marvel softly chuckles. Peeta huffs indignantly, getting up from his bag and grabbing his dagger, ignoring Glimmer's and Marvel's questions. He starts to hate Cato with a newborn fury, glaring at him, trying to bore a hole through the back of his head as they walk out.

* * *

The crescent moon shines dimly across the Arena as the two sit against the large stone in the middle of the campsite. Peeta looks anywhere but to his right, where Cato sits beside him, still upset at the District 2 boy. _Why shouldn't I be? _Peeta thinks. _He's done nothing nice to me. I mean, I know it's the Hunger Games and all, but even though, it looks he's been trying to kill my sponsors and my overall means of survival from the beginning. _

And then that incessant question rings through Peeta's mind all again.

_Then why did he choose me…? _

There seems to be no reasonable answer. If he really was impressed by that score of ten, and if Clove's opinion didn't matter, then it should all make sense that Peeta's a career, right? But then again, didn't Cato say he thinks Peeta's like a kid? So why in the world is the tribute from twelve in the career circle? Why isn't he dying somewhere in the forest, already?

After an hour or so, Peeta, frustrated and at a loss for answers, voices his inquiry.

"How did I get in?" He asks, breaking the thick silence, watching the trees on the other side of the Arena. Cato looks at Peeta from the corner of his eye. Peeta catches a glance of him; he seems to say _what the fuck are you talking about? _

Peeta sighs, still holding his gaze to the forest. "How did I get to be a career?" A brief silence splits the air. "Why did you choose…me?" Peeta buries his chin in between his knees.

Cato swivels his body to face the boy, his expression blank. Peeta turns his head to see him. Then, unexpectedly, the taller boy starts to lean dangerously close to Peeta, their faces no more than centimeters apart.

"Are you scared of me?" He asks calmly, his chocolate eyes penetrating Peeta's azure ones. Peeta feels his breath hitch, his heart quickens. Cato could do anything he wishes to Peeta at this moment. He could end Peeta's life with a flick of his sword. But then the baker remembers who he's talking to: a pompous boy whose ego is larger than the whole of Panem.

"No," he says, surprisingly strongly, albeit his racing heartbeat. Cato returns to his former position, leaning his back on the stone's side, as if nothing's ever happened.

"That's why," he leaves the conversation at that.

_That's it? _Peeta thinks, mentally blinking. _Is that really the answer to the question that's been bugging the life out me this whole day? _If he knew it was as simple as that, Peeta would've never asked. So because he refuses to be scared by Cato, Cato respects him, in his own strange way. It all makes sense, but there's still that little flaw in Cato's judgment.

"But still, why is…Glimmer a Career?" he asks, trying his best not to be rude, staring at the District 2 boy. Cato looks straight ahead.

"We've got to keep a team," he explains. "That's what careers do. Killing her would be deceitful. No one would like us." Peeta understands now. It's traditional for the all the careers to match up, no matter how…different. It's the protocol and it's what you're supposed to do.

The two boys sit in silence for a few seconds.

Cato seems oddly less jeering than normal, Peeta's realized. He seems so calm and level-headed right now. If he wasn't so arrogant—and on top of, that an enemy—Peeta might have actually considered the notion of being his friend.

"But don't think you're special," Cato jibes, as if reading the baker's mind. "Glimmer practically begged me to put you in the careers. And she's annoying when she's in a bad mood." All of Peeta's feelings for Cato—however little they were—soon dissipate, all except for pure chagrin. That boy still manages to grate Peeta's nerves down to virtually nothing.

Peeta puts on a face of irritation and looks off into the distance, trying to not give the other boy any attention. Cato slyly smirks again, content in agitating the baker.

_Asshole, _Peeta thinks, trying to drive it into Cato's mind somehow with their telepathic powers. The other boy's smirk only grows in response. Peeta mentally rolls his eyes at this.

* * *

After an hour or so, the baker's eyelids begin to droop, extremely heavy. Sleep begins to take hold of him, dragging him down into sweet, sweet slumber. It was all Peeta could do to not to fall down on his side; he hasn't closed his eyelids for more than a few hours in the past two days. He jolts awake every ten seconds, almost falling completely into a state of hibernation.

"Just go to sleep already," Cato says while looking ahead, feigning annoyance.

Peeta remembers being grateful for the other boy's mercy when he allows himself to drown in sleep's embrace.

"Thanks…" he mumbles, dropping from his seat and onto Cato's shoulder. Cato grunts in irritation, ready to throw him off, but decides to be tolerant with the defenseless boy.

Just this once.


	7. Unexpected Ire

Chapter 7:

* * *

Two hours is an accurate estimate as to how long Peeta slept for the duration of the night. Two hours before Cato bluntly pushes him off to the ground, making him hit his head.

"Ow!" Peeta could've wished for a gentler wakeup call, but what _should _you expect from Cato other than the most ungracious form of a greeting? "What the hell was that for?" the boy from Twelve shouts, grouchy from being pushed awake so roughly. He rubs the side of his blond head, lying on the grass, a sour expression plastered on his face.

"Quit your wining," Cato responds abruptly. He's standing up, his sight determinately trained on the forest for some reason. It's not even light out, Peeta realizes, the sun's dim rays barely skim the horizon in the first, faint stage of dawn. Yet Cato seems fully awake, his muscles tensed and ready to run at a moment's notice. His eyes show a gleam of excitement mixed with a ravenous hunger. "You see that?" He points to the trees he's been staring at, looking at Peeta. Peeta shifts his gaze to the area. And then he notices the column of smoke.

Cato jolts out of his spot in a split second, running towards the tent, yelling something about a "hunt". Peeta lazily gets up from his position with his dagger in hand, his mind still foggy, unable to comprehend anything. But he finally realizes what's happened when he peeks into the tent, his eyes still bleary.

There'll be a cannon sounding today for sure.

Cato has hastily pushed the whole group awake, leaving the District 3 boy with guard duty. The group rummages amongst the mess of items to find their weapons; Cato, his sword; Clove, her knives; Marvel, his spear; and Glimmer, her frightening mace and bow with arrows. The girl from District 1 terrifies Peeta sometimes. Her happy smile not in any way matches with her spiked, deadly weapon as she waves to Peeta.

"Hey, Peeta," she groggily says, her eyes half-closed in sleepiness, her hair down and loose at the ends.

"No time for 'good mornings'," Cato chides, quickly brushing past Peeta at the entrance of the tent, painfully colliding shoulders. This coerces a glare from Peeta.

The Careers file out of the tent, weapons in hand, a strange hunter's aura emanating from their bodies. The feeling of hunting down prey frightens Peeta, as the group follows Cato through the temperate forest in the direction of the smoke. He feels like Katniss, in a way, hunting down her game, like it's a routine thing. It scares him, especially because he thought he knew well about the Careers; oh how foolish he's been.

Clove, always with her serious face, walks so purposefully on the sodden ground. She isn't so bored or disinterested at everything anymore, like she was yesterday. No, she almost seems…excited. Her gait holds a hint of eagerness, ready to kill. Peeta starts to feel his stomach churn. Then he catches sight of Marvel.

The boy from District 1 seems even more eager than does Clove, his eyes shining with what can only be pure joy. Spear in hand, he takes long strides, as if to shorten the distance between him and his prey as fast as possible. His evil smile holds so much delight.

_Why do they look like they're having so much fun? _Peeta thinks. Who would ever _want_ to take away someone's life? The boy from District 12 can't imagine someone waking up in the morning thinking 'Oh, joy! I get to kill that person, today'. It just doesn't sound human. Maybe they're all so enthusiastic because it's what they've been trained to do for their whole lives. And not only might they be itching to show off their…sickening…talents, they could be doing it for sponsors, too; many weird people like the blood and gore, and the citizens of the Capitol are far from normal. But still, why then do their faces seem so genuine? Like they've wanted to do this since they've been born?

Peeta's gaze—as soon as it knew it couldn't handle the sight of such an elated Marvel—shifts to Glimmer at the baker's side.

She's as cheery as ever. If Peeta didn't know any better, he would've guessed she's walking to a birthday party, not to see someone die before her eyes, or worse, be the one to steal that life. Actually, Peeta begins to question whether she really knows where it is they're going. Maybe she didn't understand what Cato meant by 'hunt'.

Speaking of the irritating boy, he currently leads in the front, no one at his side. He also seems very eager, being the one that barreled into the tent in the first place, demanding everyone wakes up. Peeta isn't sure how much sleep the boy from District 2 got last night, if any. All Peeta remembers is idiotically falling asleep right in front of him—no, practically _on_ him. And now knowing how eager Careers are for bloodshed, Peeta can only think of how much of a vulnerable sitting duck he probably was. Cato could've killed him right there and then if he wanted to.

But then again, isn't it too soon for the Careers to fall apart and kill each other yet? That usually happens after they eradicate all or most of the other, weaker tributes, Peeta remembers from watching the previous Games. Only then do they begin to betray each _other_. A Career bond isn't so much a strong thing—it's brittle and frail for sure—but it's also something with a reliable expiration date. And if you keep it well in check, you'll most likely be safe from harm's way for a lengthy duration of the Games. Peeta feels a slight pang of relief by this. He was safe then, sleeping beside Cato, on his shoulder.

It was all the baker could do to not physically slap himself.

What was he thinking? He can never be truly safe when with the Careers; they've been known to turn on each other early on in the Games, too. But it's more dangerous concerning Cato; Peeta can't trust him if his life depended on it. Not after all that's happened.

Not only has Cato insulted the baker, but he most likely has sabotaged any chances of sponsors for Peeta by saying the boy 'doesn't have anything for Katniss'. The thought still makes Peeta furious. What did Peeta ever do to Cato? Why is the boy from District Two so damn annoying? Sponsors are all Peeta could think about for the past few days, trying to get the most he can with the 'love interest' and the 'lovable boy' angle in the interviews. But it's all probably gone down the drain, thanks to _Cato_.

_Oh why does it matter anyways? _Peeta thinks. _It's not like I need them anymore. _It doesn't seem like he'll require sponsors anytime soon, being in the Career circle. He's not alone, he has strong allies, and plus, the Cornucopia's treasures are more than enough to keep the whole gang healthy. There's a higher risk of Peeta dying of a fatal strike than of a fatal infection. Now that he's _in_ with the Careers, his main thing to worry about is losing his life to the weapon of an enemy, not to something frivolous like dehydration. Whether it's from a former Career after the pack's alliance dissolves, or from another tribute like that daunting Thresh, sponsors can't help with the loss of a head, or a punctured lung.

Peeta's most likely going to be the first one to die, being the weakest and least enthusiastic with killing. If it was his life on the line—and it is—he would do his best to defend himself, but there's that chance he'll hesitate to bring that dagger down, a chance he might think twice about stealing someone's life, and a slight faltering of judgment could cause the full-blown halt of his heart.

Peeta starts to feel trapped inside the Arena, following behind the other Careers. He starts to feel hopeless. Because with twelve other tributes—at least six of them being threats to his life—there's a dramatically low chance of him being the only one to survive. There was already a low chance in the beginning, and what has happened since then? Has he really done anything to increase the odds? Now that sponsors aren't that big of a deal, there isn't much Peeta can do to help himself before he dies. Why did he think he could've won in the first place?

Then suddenly, a force seems to drop in Peeta's pocket as he walks, its size small but its weight heavier than oceans.

Mabel's coin—his anchor. He almost forgot about the tiny piece of copper.

Peeta shakes his head violently, trying to get the depressing thoughts out of his mind. Thankfully, none of the Careers saw that. _What am I thinking? What if Mabel saw me like this? Desperate, hopeless…I can't show her that. I can't show Dad that, or my brothers. I have to be strong. _The coin in his pocket starts to heat with that optimistic fervency again. If he does _anything_, it will be with the thought in his mind that there's still a chance he could be the victor. No matter what happens, nothing will make him lose himself. That's what he promised, and not until the sun turns blue will he break that vow. He recalls her words clearly.

"_Promise me you'll try to come back!" _Her rushed voice comes to memory. _"Don't ever forget who you ar—"_

"Twelve!" Marvel calls from the front, annoyed. Lost in his thoughts, Peeta realizes he's lagged drastically behind. "Get your ass up here. What, are you thinking of running away?" He cocks his head to the side, an expression of fabricated concern painted on his face. The rhetorical question stings Peeta. Every one of Marvel's jibes so far has done that to him. They remind him of his mother's snide insults, always criticizing him on his work ethic. She always manages to find a mistake in him, no matter how hard he tries. And now, Marvel's stinging remarks are substituting for his mother's, like yesterday, when Peeta returned to camp from gathering firewood. Even in the Games, Peeta can't find refuge from his trustworthiness being questioned.

"Marvel, will you shut up?" Cato irately rasps. The column of smoke has gotten nearer, Peeta realizes; Marvel's loudness might've alarmed the tribute. "I'm gonna give _you _a reason to run away if you don't close your mouth," Cato growls at him. The boy from District 1 completely shifts his demeanor.

"Sorry…" he squeezes out a soft apology. Peeta couldn't suppress an amused smile, silently snickering. Cato catches him from the corner of his brown eyes. Peeta immediately switches his face, becoming serious. _Don't empower him, _he thinks to himself, jaw tight. Cato still manages to penetrate his thoughts, looking at him knowingly, although bereft of that annoying smirk, and then he turns his head back in front of him. _At least he wasn't smiling, _Peeta thinks, rolling his eyes and catching up with the group.

* * *

As Peeta's thoughts begin to abate, he notices everyone's footsteps have softened, and does the same. The smoke column is thinner than before, its fire diminishing. They're only a hundred or so yards away from it, trees shrouding the Careers' prize. The whole atmosphere has begun to tense. Everyone's breaths are quieter, eyes trained in front with their knuckles white in grasping weapons. Hearts begin to quicken, toxic adrenaline slowly pouring into the tributes' bodies. The air has become eerily still. Other than the crackles of the tribute's dwindling fire, nothing dares to disturb the constricting atmosphere. As they walk ever so slightly, closer to the prize, realization finally floods Peeta again.

In no more than minutes, a cannon will surely fire.

Peeta's heart starts to pound within his ribcage relentlessly, shortening his breaths. The dagger in his hand shakes, his painful grasp on it digging nails into his palm. Why is he scared? There's no reason he should be. Is it because it reminds him of the girl he killed yesterday? Or is it just because he's not used to the idea of death just yet?

Soon enough, Cato motions for everyone to stop. The tributes cease movement, along with their lungs. Peeta catches Marvel's eyes gleaming sinisterly. Glimmer, beside him, holds an unusually serious expression. Clove stands close behind Cato, who silently walks around the trees to get a look at the unfortunate owner of the fire.

He then gestures for the rest to follow. Soundlessly, they tiptoe into a small glade. And Peeta catches sight of—smack dab in the center of the clearing—a defenseless girl, asleep. She doesn't even seem to own a weapon, lying in her sleeping bag close to her extremely visible fire, completely oblivious to the outside world.

Silently, the group, lusting for blood, inches closer to her vulnerable figure, except for Peeta. He just stands there at the edge of the clearing, not particularly feeling bloodthirsty at the moment. Marvel doesn't even notice to insult him, too occupied by picking a twig from the ground and breaking it in the loudest, most obnoxious way possible, causing a deafening crack to split the still air in half. The noise seemed to echo around the trees before it resided. Then, the girl stirs in her place, shuffling for a few seconds.

_Why would he do that? _Peeta questions wildly, his eyes wide in disbelief. And then it hits him. Why else would Marvel want to wake her up? To torture her.

Cato would've been furious, but considering she's merely feet from him, she won't be able to run away in a sleepy daze. And then she slowly opens her eyes to the sight of her soon-to-be killers. It almost seems like she got a good night of sleep, and Peeta pities her even more than before, but then she violently jolts upward, her eyes widening to the brink, her breaths suddenly loud, finally realizing her situation.

A smirk crosses Marvel's mouth as he wordlessly asks Cato if he can do the 'honor'. The leader uncaringly falls back, joining the rest of the Careers. Marvel grins evilly, purposely holding his spear with more menace, walking steadily to the terrified girl. It's such an unfortunate chance Cato caught sight of her fire's smoke. And such sheer misfortune that she was just barely at the brink of being awake when her murderers grabbed the opportunity and ambushed her. There's not even a weapon for her to defend herself with and now she's frozen in place, paralyzed with shock and her muscles tensed, as if rigor mortis has already set in. It's as if everything wrong has happened to her, from the moment she was reaped.

Does death really want this girl so badly?

But then, she hastily escapes her fabric prison, rapidly falling out onto the sodden dirt, not daring to lose sight of her assailant. Marvel merely sneers at her hopeless attempts as she desperately crawls backwards, like a bug, not once breaking the arresting eye contact. He snickers at her hurried movements on the ground as he passes the sleeping bag and crudely stomps a filthy boot on her faint fire, forcing a whimper to escape her throat. Peeta subconsciously braced himself for this moment, but nothing could've prepared him for the look of utter despair on the girl's face. Her shocked eyes begin to water, _**begging**_for anything in the word than this.

"Stop," she pointlessly says. "Stop! Please stop!" her hoarse voice rings bitterly in Peeta's head. Marvel only responds with a cruel look of disgust, aimed straight at her continuing to erratically crawl away with the hopes she might actually escape.

Then her back hits the tree.

Soft sobs escape her body as she pushes herself half up, her hands glued to the bark. She's trapped, her head shaking in short, slow strides, as if Marvel will so generously offer mercy. Instead, he brings his horrifyingly sharp spear to the underside of her jaw, dragging it to front of her chin while pushing it skyward, drawing a sickening line of red against her paled skin, as if he's an artist, and his spear, a brush. Her head is tilted upwards to its extreme. She has to force her eyes to the limit of their scope to see his chillingly insidious glare.

He brings his face close and speaks in her ear, "Beg…" It was so silent Peeta couldn't hear it.

"P…" She tries at making a sound, but it's as if the air in her lungs has already escaped her, knowing that it won't have a purpose soon. "P-please…" An almost inaudible whisper squeezes out of her throat.

He pulls the spear away from her chin, bringing it back to his side. _What's this?_ Peeta thinks. Is he showing mercy? The relief on the girl's face is so tangible you could feel it. She lets a faint, open smile emerge from her pallid face, gratitude emanating from her sickly body.

But then Marvel impales her abdomen, not sparing a second for her happiness to fully sink in. She screams as the spear punctures her torso, vile blood spilling relentlessly from her chest when he pulls the gruesome weapon out. She looks at Marvel with eyes of such intense sorrow, such powerful grief, that Peeta is forced to tear his sight away from them, in fear of losing himself. Then, her shrill cries subside, and she falls to the ground with an empty thud. All Peeta could hear is the next thing Marvel says.

"Not good enough."

And then her cannon sounds.

* * *

Peeta forced his mind to believe Marvel did it for sponsors. He shoved the idea upon himself that it was all for a show, and that Marvel never meant it. That he was only doing his part of the Games, only obliging to the Capitol's wishes, and that it was all just to gain an advantage and to increase those wretched, loathsome odds in his favor.

Peeta kept driving that deep into his mind, but the only thing that comes back up is the memory of his sickening smile, the memory of his extreme joy at finally taking someone's life, as if his hands have been itching for the malicious opportunity ever since they got hold of that blood-soaked spear.

It all seems impossible to Peeta again, as he lies in his sleeping bag trying to get an ounce of rest, alone in the Career tent after they've gotten back from their 'hunt'. It's only been a few hours since Cato explained it to him, but it all seems impossible again to believe that he was chosen into the Careers. Because if _that's _what it means to be a Career, then that cannot be Peeta. Maybe he was misunderstood as a monster that can mercilessly torture another tribute, maybe they thought he was the kind of inhumane creature to gain pleasure from killing, but that's not it.

How could Marvel have done that? He led that girl to believe she was free, that she was going to live, and Peeta saw the very joy of life written on her face. He led her parents to believe that she might just have a chance—that the odds might've actually been in her favor. He toyed with their hopes, and, like a kid does with old toys, he disposed of them.

Peeta can't be that type of person; he can't do that to someone else. If that's the way to win, what would he become when he comes back? What would the people back home think about him then? Would anyone—even Mabel—ever want to get near a deceitful monster like him if he does what he has to survive in the Arena? If he follows in the Careers' bloodied footsteps, and comes back to District 12, he would be forever known as that victor that killed someone without a second thought. The victor that prowled in the night searching for lives to steal. The victor that stood and watched while a girl was given words of false hope, and then killed before she could even utter a thank you.

No. That's not what Peeta wants to become. But if that's what it means to be a Career, then why _is_ he one? Does he give off the vibes of a killer? Or was it solely because of his moxie? If the latter is the case, he doesn't know how well that's going to hold up, because his moxie's running out, and all that's left is a burning, acidic regret. Regret that he was ever chosen to be a Career. Regret that his partner had to be the best hunter in District 12.

Regret that his name was ever drawn.

…

* * *

**Everything's dark. Pitch black. Peeta stands on an invisible ground. Then a tree comes to his sight, in the midst of the darkness. There's a girl cornered to the edge of the tree, cowering at something, shaking. Peeta focuses, then the dark silhouette of a figure walks over to her menacingly, not acknowledging Peeta's presence. He holds a dagger at his side. The girl starts to scream, but he plunges his dagger in her gut, and her mouth shuts close. He digs into her, spewing blood, but she's still alive, unable to express her unbearable pain because her jaw is locked. Her eyes burst in tears while he carves into her abdomen, muffled shrieks emitting from her clamped lips. And with every movement of the dagger inside of her, cannons fire. Countless booms shatter Peeta's eardrums as the dark figure tears her body open, her seeing everything. Then suddenly, he sharply turns his head to glare at Peeta. Peeta realizes who the figure is.**

**Himself.**

* * *

Peeta's kicked abruptly out of his sleeping bag, breaking him from his nightmare. "Ow!" he yells hoarsely at the culprit, his legs jumbled in the mess of covers, his eyes bleary.

None other than Cato.

"What do you want?" Peeta coarsely says, narrowing his eyes at the standing boy.

"I don't have anyone to practice with," he nonchalantly says, swinging his sword in his hands, as if Peeta is his one-man retinue, ready to fulfill his every whim. Who does he think he is?

"I didn't ask for your life problems," Peeta retorts, getting back into his sleeping bag. His moxie's quickly depleting, but he'll squeeze some out if it's for _Cato_. "Now let me get the sleep I missed." But his actions were cut off by Cato's sword to his neck.

"And I suppose you think _I_ slept for the whole night, drooling on the ground like an idiot." He brings his face close to Peeta's. "Oh wait, that was you, getting your beauty sleep." His strong voice fills the spacious tent, leaving no room at all for arguments. "Who likes dead weight?" he speaks into Peeta's ear, bringing chills down the baker's spine. "Not me." His sword pushes slightly at the younger boy's neck with those words.

There it is again, Peeta's loyalty and overall worth being questioned. The baker feels his blood rage inside his veins, he feels his fists clamp shut in fury. And, strangely, he feels his cheeks burn red? Just waking up has made him vulnerable to verbal attacks; his mind doesn't have enough time to build those emotional barriers it makes every day. And with Cato being so close, along with his growing fury, Peeta feels his heart begin to pound, his palms begin to sweat, his blood rushes to his face. With Cato's breath and his mixing in the sultry tent air so near each other, he can't help the butterflies in his stomach.

Peeta quickly dismisses these feelings as fear. "Fine," he hisses at Cato, getting up with an untamed mane of blond hair and following the other boy out the tent, stumbling lamely along the way. Cato smirks victoriously, only further agitating Peeta's nerves.

The bright, afternoon light is harsh to Peeta's eyes when he exits the tent, but they gradually adjust. The baker notices the District 3 boy placing the mines in their respective holes, inconspicuously hiding them under the dirt of the Arena. Peeta begins to wonder what the boy's name is. _Has anyone even asked him yet?_

Then his sight chances upon Glimmer and Marvel, but Clove seems to be missing. Glimmer practices her 'archery' while Marvel cleans his…dirty spear. Peeta shivers at the sight of the girl's stubborn blood being rigorously scraped off, remembering his recent nightmare. _Wait, did Cato hear me dreaming? _Peeta quickly wonders. Apparently, when the younger blond has nightmares, he makes tiny whimpers, like a defenseless child. Cato's already heard him once, and if the older boy heard him in that state again, Peeta knows he won't hesitate to use that against him, only strengthening his argument that Peeta's a _"little kid"_.

The baker tries to see through Cato using that mental communication they have, discerning whether the older boy might've heard him. He peers into the eyes of the District 2 boy while he's chucked a sword to practice with. Nothing comes out. It's as if the older boy can drop a brick wall in front of his mind that prevents anything from penetrating, but he still manages to read the baker's thoughts like an open book.

The boys form their stances, facing each other. "Where's Clove?" Peeta asks out of the blue.

"She's out getting firewood," Cato replies, and the brief familiarity between them dies out, only to leave an awkward tension.

The air is windless, and with the artificial sun beating its fabricated beams, the atmosphere in the Arena boils at a sultry temperature. The scorching sunlight has already coerced sweat beads from the baker's skin. Cato's forehead shines lightly, too, Peeta observes. _How long has he really been awake_, the baker wonders, noticing the dark bags under his eyes. Even if the boy from District 2 got a full amount of rest the night before the Games began, he still hasn't slept a wink last night, which is a big difference from Peeta, who's slept for at least two hours. And yet, he stands there with his sword strongly grasped within his palms, determined as ever. The prospect of winning the Games is far sweeter to him than some frivolous sleep, it seems.

His intimidating factor is starting to deter Peeta all over again. _I thought I drowned that idea a long time ago, _Peeta thinks. He made sure to not be scared of the formidable boy, to not be influenced by him in any way. In spite of that, standing there, in front of such determination, the baker can't help but feel slightly intimidated. The older boy's strong figure, unyielding and resolute, emanates with an aura of fearlessness. His dark eyes pierce Peeta's inner courage, damaging his self-worth. His raw musculature bulges within the contours of his shirt, making him seem larger in comparison, like what animals do to scare off predators.

But in this case, _he _is the predator, and Peeta, the prey.

"Are you going to stare for any longer, or are we going to practice?" He asks Peeta, breaking the boy from District 12 from his trance.

"Yeah…" Peeta says, slightly shaking his head.

"Yeah to which question?" he smugly smirks.

Peeta puts on an annoyed face. "Shut up and just practice already," he says. Cato raises an eyebrow but begins nonetheless, lunging at Peeta. It's at this moment the baker realizes that, other than probably a few minutes in the Training Center, he has no experience with a sword.

Peeta attempts to block, but his arms buckle from Cato's power and he's forced to leap back. The baker tries a slash at his opponent, only to be countered and shoved back by Cato's hilt. Cato continuously strikes, clashing swords, pushing Peeta back and back. _Shit, he's a hundred times better than me, _Peeta thinks while being forced near the rim of the forest.

In between her shots, Glimmer notices the two boys dueling from the corner of her eye. She turns around and begins to cheer for Peeta.

The boys clash swords once again, this time the swords lock against each other, both boys pushing with equal force. It's at this moment Peeta's sight chances upon a blemish on Cato's neck. It's a sort of whitish scar, the baker observes. And because of this, Peeta lets his guard down, giving Cato the opportunity to ram him with the side of his forearm, toppling them both to the ground. The battle is over as soon as it began. Cato smirks victoriously upon Peeta; subjugating the younger boy gives him satisfying power. Their deep, humid breaths collide once again in the sultry air. The sensation of Cato's burly body compressed upon Peeta's is a strange, unfamiliar feeling for the baker. He feels the blood start to rush to his cheeks again.

Cato smirks smugly. "Weak," he says, causing air to blow on Peeta's face.

_Weak? _Peeta thinks irately. _If he thought I was weak, then why did he ask me to practice with him in the first place! Am I just a toy to play around with? _The thought vexes the boy from District 12. Peeta, needing to keep his dignity intact, desperately grasps at insults to spit back to Cato. He needs a witty retort, and quick.

But the only thing that comes out of his mouth is: "That's not what your mom said."

_That was probably the worst comeback ever in the history of comebacks, _Peeta thinks. The baker was expecting a degrading chuckle from the older boy at his lame retort; he was expecting the older tribute to smirk at him again. But so unlike his collected self, Cato unexpectedly shifts to a menacing expression. His face changes from that ordinary smirk, to a vicious scowl of hate. Apparently, Peeta struck a soft spot.

Cato picks Peeta from his shirt collar and roughly jams his back on a nearby tree, forcing his forearm on Peeta's neck, their faces no more than inches apart. "Don't you _ever _talk about my mother," he threateningly rasps, his voice soaked deep with venom. His forehead furrows in fury, and his already-prominent neck muscles bulge to their limits, only making his scar more visible. He looks like he's ready to just cut Peeta's jugular open with the sword grasped in his white knuckles.

Peeta knows he should be extremely frightened of the furious, towering boy at the moment, but the baker smirks. Why wouldn't he smile, he's managed to make _Cato _angry—no, fuming—and that rarely ever occurs. This time, the baker has control over _his _emotions, he can influence _him_. Peeta can't help but take advantage of this.

"Did I hit a nerve?" He smoothly says, although Cato's forearm pressed harshly against his throat. He knows he's taking an extremely dangerous risk by provoking the older boy, but he still can't pass the chance at toying with Cato, like he's done with Peeta countless times. _I mean, what has Cato ever done for me?_ The only kind thing the older boy's ever done is shut Marvel up, and; compared to destroying Peeta's sponsor base, insulting his overall dignity, and basically playing around with his emotions; stopping Marvel from teasing him isn't exactly something worthy of praise.

And either way, would the boy from District 2 really risk killing Peeta like this, a fellow Career and with no motive other than anger? Would he really take Peeta's life for something as trivial as words, and for no reason other than being in a fit of rage? The older boy might be bold, but he's not brash. That wouldn't be appealing, nor would it get any sponsors. If Cato's smart—and he is—then he won't kill him.

Peeta may be sticking his head deep into the lion's mouth, but with his helmet of leverage, it's worth the risk.

"Am I the one in control of the emotions now?" Peeta says, raising his eyebrows defiantly. He notices Glimmer rushing to them, trying to get a good look at what's happening. She just stands there, a few yards away, her mouth agape. Cato takes a deep inhalation, shutting his eyes. Then he exhales loudly through his mouth.

"Now why would you ever think that?" he says smoothly, that signature smirk of his playing on his lips once again, as if Peeta did nothing to aggravate him in the first place. His grip on Peeta's throat slackens, but doesn't fall completely. _Damn it! He's in control of his emotions again, _Peeta thinks. The baker's lost his chance to further irritate the older boy.

"Because just seconds ago you were boiling angry, like I really said something to hurt your fragile feelings," Peeta says, trying to get back that feeling of power over Cato's emotions. "You were even angrier than you were in the chariot show, after I showed you off, or the night of the interviews, when I—again—showed you off." The baker smiles victoriously, thinking he might've gotten the edge over the other boy.

Cato merely snorts at Peeta's words. "The chariot show? That was way back, when I _almost _thought you were a threat," he says into Peeta's ear, sending electric chills down the baker's spine. "Now you're nothing but a little, tiny mouse to me." His smile grows as he notices Peeta's extremely vexed expression.

"Umm," Glimmer lamely interrupts the boys' conversation. "Hey, guys, maybe we should just forget abou—"

"Shut up, Glimmer," both boys say simultaneously. Peeta didn't mean to be as harsh as he was, but with Cato's irritatingly calm demeanor, the words just flew out of his mouth. And it seems too late to bring them back, because she looks hurt for a second, but then shifts her expression to one of anger, swiftly turning around and raising her hands in a gesture of compliance.

"Fine," she grunts, while walking back to her bow. "Tear each other apart for what I care. It's as if you guys are more interested with each _other_ than you are with the female gender." And she storms off with those words.

Peeta doesn't have enough time to comprehend her before Cato pushes him out of their constricting position and shoves him in the direction of the tent. "Go get your beauty sleep, Barbie. Practicing with you isn't worth it," he says, as if he wasn't the one to force Peeta to be his partner.

Peeta's blood begins to course rampantly through his veins. _What is with this boy? _He thinks, boiling inside_. One moment, he wants me to be his partner; the other, he dismisses me as if it's my fault that he doesn't know how to control his emotions! One moment, he's white-hot in anger; then the other, he's back to demolishing my pride and dignity. _It's as if his resolve for aggravating Peeta to the brink is stronger than his determination to win the Games.

"Hey!" Peeta yells, gaining half of Cato's attention. He opens his mouth to speak more, but is cut off by Clove shouting from a distance.

All the attention of the Careers goes to the place where her shouts are coming from. Then, she emerges, without a single twig in her arms, running at a break-neck speed, deeply panting when she finally stops, her hands resting on her knees. Everyone's sight—even the District 3 boy's—is trained on her. She looks up at Cato, her eyes glinting with that same excitement that she had this morning during the 'hunt'. She opens her mouth and speaks words that render Peeta's blazing ire insignificant compared to his chilling fear.

"I found another tribute."


	8. Burdens

The Mouse

I don't know who it is we're hunting for. Clove said that when she saw the tribute's figure, she ran to inform us, without a care in the world for who it is. And frankly, I don't _want _to know who it is. It'll just be better in the night, when the faces of the dead tributes show, dead tributes like that girl Marvel killed. I shake my head in disgust. I don't know if I can handle anymore nightmares of that girl. I didn't even know her District number, let alone her name.

I hitch my head up to the sight of Clove walking purposefully on the forest floor. She must've been so happy to find that soon-to-be-dead tribute. It's as if death is the only thing that brings her joy—which can't even get more ironic—because she always maintains a somber expression when in the camp, but now she's as enthusiastic as a hyperactive Glimmer. It never ceases to shock me how eager Careers can be for a kill.

I catch sight of an anxious Marvel with a deadly gleam in his sea-green eyes. I hope he doesn't kill this one, because I think he's had enough. It's like giving too much sugar to a kid. I notice his visibly tightened muscles. When I catch a glimpse into his eyes again, I see his pupils are dilated, a sign his adrenal glands are working overtime. I can't help but wonder who will have to kill him. Will it be a fellow Career? Because that's how Careers usually die. Will it be Cato? Will it be me? I hope not. I don't want to kill anybody anymore. Or will he win? I don't even want to look at him any longer, in fear of the endless possibilities.

I see Glimmer walking beside me. Her footsteps on the forest floor are quiet. Her eyes look dead-straight, a flicker of joy kindling inside of them. Her body doesn't seem to suit that look, she just seems too determined. And especially by the way she normally acts—overly bubbly and fizzing with enthusiasm—I'm not particularly comfortable with the way she's carrying herself.

She looks at me staring at her, and then winks.

I avert my gaze as fast as possible. Even though I'm happy she forgave me for telling her to shut up—apparently her temper tantrums don't keep grudges—I still don't enjoy her affectionate attention much. It's not that she repulses me—because she doesn't; she's gorgeous. But I'm not into her. She's…not my type. _Yeah, like every other girl isn't your type, _the evil part of my mind speaks without consent. I shove it into its dark corner.

Glimmer stifles her giggles at me, only making me blush harder. And apparently, she thinks I'm cute. I don't know where she gets that ridiculous idea. How am _I_ on her list of cute guys? It doesn't make sense, I mean, what about Marvel? She obviously knew him before the Games. Or even Cato, _he's _the type to get girls, not me. Just look at that perfect color of blond hair, those chocolate eyes that demand attention, those over-defined muscles in front of me, gloriously shifting their hefty weight under that perfect skin of his. Well, almost perfect skin.

I can see his scar on the side of his neck from behind. It's uneven and white, but not calloused. It's very unlike the types of scars people in District 12 get; the coal miners at home get scratchy, dark lines on their hands and arms from their laborious work. But his, it's in an almond shape, and it doesn't suit him because it's a blemish. An imperfection. And for some reason I can't stop looking at it.

It reminds me of just about an hour ago, when it was no more than inches away, right in my face for me to see clearly. That should've been the scariest time of my life—he was absolutely livid. But for some reason, it wasn't. I should've felt threatened, but I couldn't control my happiness. It was one of the only times _he's_ been the "little kid", unable to temper his emotions. But I'm unsure if I should bring the "mom bomb" up again. Who knows whether he'll be able to control his urge to kill me if I throw another joke about his mother? Whether the only thing he'll see is red, and if my blood will just blend into the background, unnoticed?

But for some reason, however tiny, I still want to know about his mother. He was absolutely furious when I disrespected her—fuming for that matter. What is it that makes his mom such a touchy topic? Does he really love her so much that he can't handle a joke about her? Is she really such a wonderful mother that he was almost willing to kill for her dignity? I wonder if she's so kind that he'll do anything to defend her honor. I wonder if she congratulated him for his achievements, that's probably why he respects her so much. Maybe she used to give him rewards when he was little, like ice cream or toys. I wonder if she put him first before anything else. If he did something bad, but told her, and she forgave him because he was honest. I wonder if she told him to never give up when he makes a mistake. To get back up when you fall down, or always do your best, like those picture-perfect mothers. I wonder what she's done to make him love her so much.

I wonder if my mom even tries.

I accidentally step on a loud twig, making everyone jump and look at me, startled. "Sorry…" I mumble out, and everyone relaxes, going back to the _gruesome _task at hand. This is going to be just like this morning with the girl, isn't it?

Then suddenly, all my memories of her, of the nightmare, come raging into my mind like a tsunami, devouring every other thought I had before. Unintentionally, I remember her expression when she saw us. I remember how grateful she looked when she thought she was going to live again, how her eyes flooded with sorrow when the spear went through her stomach. I remember my face, when it was me that killed her in the nightmare, looking like a feral beast, deathly and malicious, as if I was on the border of insanity and humanity and choosing which side to set foot on.

My breathing gets involuntarily shaky, thinking about the ugly, marred face of the monster I was in my nightmare. I dig nails into the hand holding my shaking dagger. I try to walk along with the Careers, but I start to stumble, my feet making noisy crunching sounds on the pine needles, tripping over every tree's roots.

All I can think about is how torturously she died, and how _I _was the one to murder her, even if it _was_ a dream. Everyone's looking at me now, bewildered at my noisiness. I'm probably attracting a lot of attention. I'm probably causing a lot of noise. But I don't notice them staring at me because I'm too caught up in my own hallucination, drowning in fear of what might happen with this new tribute. Will Marvel kill this one as mercilessly as the last? Will _I _be picked to murder this one? No, I won't be able to stand it if I did; I'd lose my sanity.

What does everyone in my District think of me, joining this pack of deadly beasts that lust only for violence and gore? Who would want a blood-soaked victor coming back into their District? Everyone probably thinks I'm planning on killing Katniss, probably thinking about it this very moment. Everyone must already hate me—my family, Mabel, Gale, Katniss's family—everyone! I can't seem to get a grip on the world. I think I'm hyperventilating. My thoughts are frantic, I can't think straight. I'm already losing it, like some tributes I've seen become crazy in the Arena. My world is spinning in endless circles and I just want it to stop. I just want the nightmares—the Games—to stop. I just want everything to stop!

And then he catches me, and I'm pulled back into reality, as if zooming awake from the brink of a dream.

It's Cato. He's grabbing me by the biceps with both of his hands. Strongly. I just notice my eyes are stinging with unshed tears. I'm shaking in between his grasp, tense and rigid from the unusual contact, making him have to hold my biceps extremely tight. He's looking at me with intense, unreadable eyes, and I know what must be going through them: _This bitch is the weakest excuse for a boy I've ever seen. He's too much of a burden._ I know he's going to kill me now, so he doesn't have to do it later. I know I'm an inconvenient disadvanatage, because all I do is make noise and waste resources. I'm worthless!

My body is about to fight back before he gets his sword from the ground, but then he starts to say something…

"Shh…" And before he even closes his mouth, I immediately stop shaking. Just that soft sound from his voice makes my fears dissipate, makes me forget everything I was ever scared of. And even though he's holding me so tight I think I'm going to lose circulation in my arm, I don't care. Because for some reason, it's better than any nightmare I've had in the past few days. Because in the space of this small moment, it's as if he's keeping me safe from the prying eyes of Panem. And for a tiny second…I don't have to be afraid anymore.

But then he finishes what he was saying.

"Shhut. Up," he blatantly rasps.

The words sting me more than they should. For some reason, I feel like my feelings have been torn. For some odd reason, I feel hurt deep inside. But why? Why do I feel so hurt? I shouldn't feel this angry that my blood boils within my veins. I shouldn't be this furious like I just want to punch him straight in his jaw. But for some reason, I still feel an urge to make him suffer for being mean. But it was just two stupid words, right? If they don't mean anything, then why does my fist itch so badly to punch his gut right now? Why do I randomly feel so hurt because of two words?

I open my mouth to try to defend myself.

"Guys!" Clove yells at us from the front, bringing me back to the Games. "Could you tone it down?" she rasps, her voice laden with thick sarcasm.

Cato removes his warm hands from my biceps and an unwelcome chill nips at the skin he left marks on. I almost want him to hold me again, but then I remember how much I despise him. "_I _can," he says, walking away, not even deigning me with that loathsome smirk of his. "But I don't know about this kid."

The last word he says, it just became my most hated one.

I almost lunge at him, but get interrupted by Marvel colliding his side to mine, leaving me in the dust while snickering. Glimmer places a consoling hand on my shoulder, concern written on her face. "Forget about it, Peeta, let's go," she says, a genuine smile gracing her lips. I almost want to push her away, but she's so sweet I just agree with her, nodding as we walk behind the other Careers.

* * *

Even after a few minutes, I'm still smoldering with anger, with rage that I can't seem to control; he's made me so furious. But why? I was making noise and he simply told me to stop. Why can't I control my emotions? And then it comes to me.

Because I was weak. I was scared at that one moment, in need of someone to hold me, to comfort me, and when I so gullibly thought that this insolent beast was trying to make _me—_someone that insulted his so important mother—feel better, he punches me in the gut. I was afraid, and when at the very moment I started to assume he was even physically _capable _of kindness, when at the very second I let my emotional fronts break down because I so foolishly thought I was safe beside him, he drives a sword through my chest. Because the moment he demolishes my walls, and I feel like I could actually be safe in this hell-hole, he rips out my heart. That's why! Not just because I wasn't expecting it, but because _I _let myself be weak, let myself be vulnerable, defenseless. And despite being just two words, they have told a thousand.

First, they confirm that he's an asshole, which I never should've believed wasn't true.

Second, they confirm that it's foolish to let yourself open up, to let your guard down in this god-forsaken place, which I so mindlessly did in that one, _infinitesimal _second.

But what's worst, and what really stings me like nothing Marvel's insults ever could, is that they confirm all of Cato's beliefs about me. They confirm what he's been saying about me for the past few days is correct. That I truly _am _a little kid, weak, fragile, in need of someone to hold me so I stop being scared of the skeleton in the closet, of the monster under the bed. They prove that he was right all along. That's why I'm this furious! That's why I want to make him feel pain!

That cynical monster made me feel safe, made me feel protected, and then he hit me when I was weakest. He wants nothing but to make others feel insignificant, because it makes _him_ feel dominant. His only purpose is to belittle others, to exploit weaknesses so that he feels like he has power, like he has control. So that he feels like he's the king of the jungle, and that everyone is his loyal servant.

It must give him such euphoric pleasure to feel important, something his mother must have stupidly misled him to believe. That woman must have spoiled him so much that he feels like he can do anything he wants without any consequences. She must've placed him up on such a sky-high pedestal that after years of his ego being stroked, he thinks he's a god now. And because of that, he thinks that if he can cut me down, then that will make him feel on top.

But he doesn't know a _thing _about me. That arrogant, pride-gorged beast can't be more wrong. _Never _will he get the satisfaction of making me feel small. I won't allow him to shut me up, to shove me into a corner where I'm told to stay put, to be as quiet as a mouse.

And if his mother so misled him to believe he can make me feel insignificant, then I, myself, will teach him to not underestimate others. If he so pompously thinks that he has the influence to degrade me, wait till I show _him_. If he's been that spoiled to believe he can trample all over me like I'm such an insignificant pest, then I'll make it clear to him I'm anything _but_. I'll make it so clear he won't even know how to handle my defiance. I'll make him so _utterly_ shell-shocked someone has the gall to disobey _him_,he won't know what to do with my audacity. I'll make him so baffled, he'll just stand there, mouth open, drooling like a _little kid_.

I'll make him cry for his mommy to make everything better.

* * *

Soon enough, we reach a glade where Clove points up to a far-off tree and shouts. I see the back of a dark figure on a high branch startle awake, and my mind instantly recalls this morning.

_No, _I tell myself. I will not lose it again.

I've been bracing myself for this very moment the whole trip. And now more than ever, I have to show Cato I'm not weak and that I can handle a hunt. I can handle death. I can be strong. I can control my emotions. Because I bet that if I show even a single ounce of trepidation, then that's it. I will be forever marked as "kid". And there goes my last sliver of hope for dignity, down into a deep abyss.

I am virtually unchanged, bored almost, when we approach the pine tree. I walk resolutely, undaunted. If there's any feeling I'm going to show anymore, it will be apathy. Because God knows what happens when I show anything more than indifference.

All of us are gathered at the base of the large pine. Finally, we get a good look at our victim, and I recognize who it is almost immediately. The chestnut hair in a braid. The stark, slate gray eyes. The unmistakable golden pin I noticed on the train ride.

Katniss.

My heart starts to race in an instant. I can literally _feel _my pupils dilate in the explosion of adrenaline coursing through my arteries. The hand holding my dagger starts to get damp and clammy, and I think I'm going to make my palm bleed by my nails. Luckily, my face is unchanged, despite every single fiber behind it quaking in distress.

Why did it have to be Katniss? Why did it have to be my District partner? Even though we're not very much partners anymore. Suddenly, I envision my family—her family—watching this as it plays out, watching me look dead-straight at the better-experienced girl. I see them shaking their heads, already knowing I'm lost to them, a full-fledged Career. I know they're looking straight through that screen with disgust, aversion to this broken tribute that doesn't care anymore for honor. They must think I'm a monster, hunting someone I said I loved.

"Hey! It's that girl!" Glimmer calls out, breaking me from my depressing thoughts. She's jumping up and down, pointing at Katniss with a finger, a shocked expression plastered on her face.

"Yes, Glimmer, it's that girl," Clove retorts with a bite of sarcasm. "If you're so excited, why don't you kill her?" The girl from District 1 crosses her arms and cocks an eyebrow. "Or can you?"

Glimmer shifts to a sour attitude, her eyes narrowed in defense. "What, you think I can't?" she says bitterly, bringing a bow in her hand and an arrow in the other. "Just wait and see." And she proceeds to aim directly at Katniss. My heart thumps violently within my chest. _Thump, thump, thump. _Katniss is going to die and I will have done nothing to stop it. Her heart will stop beating and her cannon will fire, and I'll be there to see the entire show, along with the whole of Panem, including District 12. The favored tribute is going to lose her life and I will be seen not lifting a finger on her behalf. She's going to die and everyone will hate me for not trying to stop it!

Before I can take another breath, Glimmer lets her arrow loose. It hits a branch twenty yards off-target, almost killing a bird in the process. Clove can't suppress her bouts of laughter.

"You suck at archery!" she says in between her inhalations. "There! I said it!"

Glimmer looks at Clove with such intense fury that I would've been scared of her if I wasn't so nervous about Katniss dying. Honestly, I didn't expect _Glimmer _to kill Katniss, but I know my District partner's death is inevitable because…because she's outnumbered, and we're the Careers. I want to feel pity for her but I know I'm not in any position to do that because, technically, I am one of her assailants. I want to say sorry so badly but what will that do?

"So why don't you kill her with a few knives, huh?" Glimmer spits at Clove. "Or can you?" she copies the other girl's words verbatim, a replica eyebrow cocked in the same fashion as before.

_Thump-thump, _my heart resumes its raging beat. Clove is going to sling a knife through Katniss's skull—the image repulses me.

Clove's laughter ceases, and she looks at the girl from District 1 for a long and hard time, contemplating whether Glimmer really said what she did. "You have a dense head, don't you?" she says, shaking her head. "Knives don't go up that far, sweetie," she smoothly says, almost as if the girl from District 1 is being taught a lesson in a classroom. I relax at her words.

Glimmer clenches her jaw shut so tight I think she could form diamonds for herself with that type of power. "Marvel," she calls out sternly through her teeth. Said boy grunts in acknowledgment. "Kill her with your spear," she uses a demanding tone, a voice not her own, and I get a glimpse of a side of her I've never seen before.

_Thump-thump._ There it is again, the impending dread of Katniss's death. I can almost hear Marvel asking Katniss to beg. I can almost see his shaft impaling her abdomen.

"Spears don't go that high, either, Glim," he says nonchalantly, and my heart slackens its pace for a short while. Glimmer grunts in anger, lost at how to defend herself from Clove's insults, and lost at how to kill the girl perched on the tree. It's amazing how Cato just stands there, arms crossed, uninvolved in the whole thing. He's probably just waiting to come in when we need him, just because he loves that feeling of being needed, like he's important.

We hear Katniss start snickering at our fruitless and mediocre attempts to end her life. "Why don't you throw me that bow and arrow? I'll teach you how to use it," she says smugly through laughs, her slate gray eyes shining brightly.

Glimmer glares at Katniss with a fury I've never seen in her before. It's as if she's an entirely different person, as if the old Glimmer was a mask. "Do you think I'm stupid?" she says with a venom-steeped voice.

"Yes," Katniss replies.

The girl from District 1 rapidly pulls another arrow from her quiver and shoots an arrow in Katniss's direction before I could even blink. It hits merely three feet away from her target, snagged in a branch, so close that Katniss grabs it and starts to brandish it in a cruel taunt. I'm still shocked at how Glimmer managed to close the gap of twenty yards and three feet in no more than two shots. And even then, it seemed like she was holding back something, as if she was making an effort to miss.

"I could _throw_ this from up here and probably kill you," Katniss jeers from the safety of the tree's canopy. I can see the inferno blazing behind Glimmer's eyes.

"Cato," she says with a sudden and dramatic change of her voice, her bright eyes now shining with innocence. "Could you climb up and kill her?" she asks with a pout. It's as if she's put that mask back on.

_Thump-thump! Thump-thump! _I know this is it! Cato's going to slit her throat open when he gets up and I'm going to have to watch. I'm going to have to shower in the blood pouring from her neck.

Everything is quiet. They just stare at each other, Glimmer holding that sweet expression, Cato not backing down, arms crossed.

"Are you joking? I not gonna try to climb that." He _finally_ says something; I bet he's been itching himself mad to be heard. But nonetheless, I'm relieved.

Glimmer exaggeratedly grunts in defeat. I think she's going to have a temper tantrum and start swinging her mace wildly, but I'm caught off guard when she storms off. In my direction.

She stomps, her footsteps loud and obnoxious, all the way to my arm, clinging on to it because I'm her last hope for dignity, her last hope for the burdensome attention to fling off of her and onto me. I'm supremely flustered, probably blushing, while she just makes argumentative sounds, fighting my other arm trying to pry her off.

"Peeta," she whines, faking being hurt. She doesn't have the right to do that; _I've _been hurt, not her. "Peeta, please, could _you _kill her?"

Yet again, I'm caught off guard by this girl.

I wasn't expecting _anyone _to ask me. I didn't know someone _could _stoop to that level of dishonor. _No! I can't kill her! What do _you _think, Glimmer? Oh wait, you don't think. _My mind goes off in a million insults per mile, but my lips stay pursed. What am I supposed to do? Killing Katniss is not an option. If I kill Katniss, then no. No. It's not worth going back to District 12—it's not worth living. Because winning in the blood of my District partner is the lowest, most disgraceful shame a victor can ever trudge home in, and I'm already in some deep shit.

So what? Am I supposed to say no? Am I supposed to say I can't, or I won't? No matter what, it will only magnify my worthlessness—oh the irony of that. I'm torn between probably going home to all those people that will see my face and wish to see Katniss's, and between refusing to kill her which might just bring me some recognition and honor in my District, but will put me on the top of the 'to-be-dead' list of the Careers.

If I say I can't because I don't know how to climb well, then what am I worth? Close to zero. I'm worth less than the coin in my pocket. Because if I can't climb, if I can't make a fire, if can't build a tent, if I can't hunt an animal, if I can't bake bread right, if I can't decorate a cupcake correctly, if I can't be a good son, if I can't handle my own emotional hallucinations, if I can't protect my feelings from being hurt,if I can't even _breathe _without someone having to hold me, then yet again I'm useless. Useless! And that's what I absolutely _hate _being but somehow by some evil misfortune what I always get trapped to be. Trapped like the insignificantly small fish in a net that you just throw away, bleeding through the mouth when you let it be vulnerable prey in the ocean; trapped like the horse with a broken leg that you just shoot dead because it can't help you, because it can't do anything you want it to; trapped like the innocent mouse in a miniature guillotine, when what you wanted was a rat.

But if I say I _won't_ kill her because she's my partner, my friend, my 'love', _then_ what am I worth? Absolutely nothing. Because if I can't learn to control my emotions with the Careers, I'm already dead weight to them. I'm already rotting meat that they just want to throw out and are waiting for the right time to. If I can't shut my emotions off to kill someone then I'm just ugly, worthless trash; then I'm not even worth the trouble of having live. If I say I won't, then that might give me some honor in my District, but it will also give me a death sentence.

And now with Glimmer attached to my very bone, rattling my forearm, I want to speak, I want to get out of this suffocating vice, I want to say something that will get her off of me so I can get some breathing space, because I think I'm slipping off into that state of delirium again—I think I'm going to start hyperventilating. I want to shout at her that it's not going to happen, that I'm not even worth talking to, but my mouth is fighting a fierce battle with my shy mind, and it's losing. My lips part barely for a hair's width, and then they clamp shut again. I'm so indecisive, so conflicted, I don't know what to say, I'm at a complete and utter loss.

"Do you really think if _I_ can't climb it, then _he _can?" Cato speaks for me, making me even _more_ overwrought with emotion.

He insulted me! Again! He just made me look like a pansy in front of everyone, in front of Panem, speaking for me like I'm some little kid—there's that word again. I don't need someone to voice my thoughts for me, to hold my hand when I cross the street, to chew my food for me. God! He breaks my pride with every chance he gets, trying to make me smaller and smaller until I'm tiny enough to squish like a bug, until I'm as insignificant as the dust in the air. I hate him!

But still, in some weird way, he just helped me. He spoke for me because he knew that _I_ wasn't going to do it anytime soon. He spoke for me and that threw the weight of the kill from my burdened back up into the air, where it will surely fly down with even more power, hurdling at a thousand miles per hour, flaming like a meteor. He relieved me of the duty, and no matter how much I don't want to be, not matter how unhealthy it is for my mind, I find myself being grateful for him. He probably…saved my life.

Why does he make me feel this way? He cuts me down, and then he helps me up. What is this ridiculous nonsense?

Glimmer's bright eyes drown in despair, in hurt. But I see through the façade. All that color, all that emotion in her eyes, it's all fake. I can hear the plastic in her whiny, whimpering voice. It's all artificial. It's latex. She doesn't really care that I'm not going to kill Katniss. She doesn't really care that _no one_ is able to kill the girl perched on the tree. In truth, she's actually happy that the unneeded attention is off of her and still suspended in the air, where it waits with a foreboding doom to fall on its next victim.

Everything is silent. I can hear the birds chirp in the trees. I can hear all the sounds of nature, and it's as if I've become deaf to the real world, as if I'm stuck in a limbo.

Everyone is absolutely speechless, at a genuine loss at how to kill Katniss, how to put out the girl on fire. They're all pondering over it; Marvel with his hand to his chin; Clove biting her lip and glaring at the girl; Glimmer simply on the ground now, arms and legs crossed, pouting so deeply it must hurt; and Cato with—Ah to hell trying to decipher Cato.

He's just standing there, indifference oozing through his copper skin. His biceps swell at an abnormal size because of his crossed arms, and they remind me of my own aching in the place his fingers left them. But for some reason, I can't tell if they're aching from hurt…or from longing.

I try to push these thoughts away.

I don't want him to hold me again! What is this? I'm stupefied at my own self. Yes, okay, I felt safe when he held me. But only because I thought he was trying to comfort, I thought he was trying to help. I'm so foolish, now I realize. But even though I know he's disgusted at making people feel better, even though I know he must have a deep-rooted aversion to happiness, a tiny part of me wants to believe he actually wanted to me to stop being scared. A little, insignificant part of my heart wants to think that he was trying to comfort me when he held my shivering frame, and he had to say 'shut up' because otherwise his cover would be blown, he would be seen as weak. A piece of me wants to believe that he's always _been _helping me, bringing me into the Careers, quieting Marvel, throwing away those weights of awkward conversation when I need it most.

Oh God how foolish I am.

"So…what?" Katniss asks from her canopy bed, breaking me from my ramblings, true perplexity glowing in her face; she's literally confused at what's going to happen, she doesn't get it that she might live—

She might live!

No, she _will_ live! How is this possible? None of the Careers can kill her! This is astounding. Everyone just stands there, at a loss at how to retort. No one knows what to do because I bet they've never been in the situation where the underdog is in power.

My District partner is going to live and the weight of those eyes back home seems to just lift off of me. I feel like everyone in District 12 is crying out loud, jumping and screaming with joy that the girl on fire will continue to blaze. I feel like jumping with them, wanting so badly to be part of the occasion. I want to be happy—I want to show my gratitude that my partner is living, that not everyone hates me for being in the Careers because they're too occupied with being exalted for Katniss. I'm almost about to crack a small smile.

But then I catch sight of Cato, looking at me with blank, contemplative eyes, and I can see what's going through them. He's observing me, like a predator observes his prey. He's patiently waiting for me to slip, for me to stumble on my feet, so at that very second he can trap me and eat me alive. He's _waiting_ for me to smile, to show a sign of happiness for my District partner—for my so-called 'love'—living. He's observing me to find that one little hint of joy, so he can use it against me like the cynical beast he is. So he can exploit my feelings because he doesn't like feelings. He must think that emotion equals weakness.

_That's _why he's always so indifferent! He thinks that if I'm happy, then consequently I'm weak, which in turn makes me useless to him. Because I won't be able to kill a person if I have a heart.

Little does he know yet that I will offer him _nothing _to take advantage of. _I can't show him I'm weak, _I say to myself. Because if I let him see me being happy, then that means I'm pliable to emotion, I'm supple, easily influenced. If I show him I'm happy, then he'll win. And I don't like losing. _I'm strong. I can do this._ So because of this haphazard burst of pride, I stand up straight—chin high—and clear my throat loudly.

The full attention of Panem falls dead on me.

Looking in Katniss's deep, vast eyes, I almost feel like my body won't be able to handle the weight of that gray ocean on top of my shoulders. I feel like I've made an irreparable mistake, a stupidly rash decision that I can't back down from now. For a split second, I seriously contemplate on saying "never mind…" and forgetting about the millions of eyes glaring at me, the millions of impatient ears awaiting my voice. But then I remember one, single set of eyes from the midst, still trained upon my stock-still frame. A pair of dark, coffee-colored, contemptuous eyes that I just want to rip out of their sockets. A pair of eyes I was once afraid of.

And against every single cell in my body screaming at me to reconsider my actions, I open my mouth.


	9. Emotions

The Lion I

"Maybe we should just wait…"

_Finally_, he speaks up. I was beginning to think he lost his tiny voice; it's so small he could've misplaced it.

"I mean, it's not like she's going anywhere…" I hear his childish tone and sense the apprehension hiding within it, mentally shaking my head.

No one says anything.

"Not a bad idea, kid," I articulate the last word, just to annoy him. It apparently works, because I see those innocent, blue eyes burn in fury. I chuckle to myself; he's too easily influenced—not something you want to be in the Arena. "Marvel, Glitter girl, go get some supplies from camp." I take the lead, like what I've been trained to do.

They nod their heads and depart to complete their tasks, Marvel as obedient as ever, Glimmer slightly disgruntled but compliant nonetheless.

Marvel confuses me, always has; he's submissive to everyone in my pack—everyone except Peeta, who he tries to torture. He tags along with Glimmer all the time, despite her lack of leader skills; he avoids contact with Clove, which is smart; and of course he's subservient to me, I'm not surprised by _that_.

But what's strange is he has a completely different, more offensive side when with anyone else. He bullied the smaller tributes in the training center, and he continues to with Peeta. A normal Career will have one, strong, unrelenting side and never shift, never waver, although it's smart to respect your elders, your leaders. He confuses me because he's cleverer than a normal Career.

And Glimmer—she's a whole different story. She's too happy, which is already one reason she grates my nerves, incessantly smothering Peeta like he enjoys the attention, cheering with animated joy when something good happens to her. And then—similarly to Marvel—she has this other, extreme side to her. Whenever someone does something to offend her, she either pouts like a toddler or has a temper tantrum like a spoiled princess.

But sometimes, she takes me surprise. Sometimes I think that there's a _third_ side to her, one that she hides. Like just a few minutes ago, when Clove spat at her that her archery is horrible. I could see the fury, the rage, festering inside of the District 1 girl. I could feel the dangerous inferno radiating through her skin. I think that when Clove insulted her in her presence, she spat at that third face of hers, the hidden side, and it wasn't something Clove probably wanted to do.

I've always thought that all kids from District 1 are spoiled brats that expect to get whatever they want, but now I'm at a loss.

As Marvel and Glimmer amble away to complete their task, their footsteps falling silent in the damp, forest air, I shift my domineering attention to Clove and Peeta.

"Clove, take this crybaby with you and get some firewood for the night," I say, not even lifting an eye to glance at the assumingly furious boy I called a crybaby. "I'll secure the perimeter," I say, turning my back to them and walking to the edge of the glade, wielding my gleaming sword.

Clove gives a grunt of assent and I hear their footsteps evanesce—well, at least Clove's anyways. Compared to my District partner's, Peeta's footsteps sound like raging cannons booming on the forest floor. I can sense his storming fury, all of it directed towards me just because I called him a "crybaby". I can feel his clenched fists around my throat, his burning breath within my veins. I can sense the blazing inferno, a tempest of rage, within his mind, futilely attempting to char me to ashes, to drown me into oblivion.

He amuses me too much.

He hates me with a burning passion, and it's actually quite funny. Because I know what he's trying to do: he's trying to defy me. He's trying to be rebellious, clinging on to that last shred of dignity like a hopeless fool. He's trying to make me think that he's not influenced by me, that I don't scare him, so I'll give up and he can be left alone. He's _trying_ to be bigger than me with the thought that he'll frighten me into running away, like what some animals do to scare off larger predators, fanning their bodies out to increase their size.

But I laugh because it only proves to me that he _is _influenced, that he _is _scared, and trying desperately to defend himself. It amuses me because he's being his own demise, his own dignity-shredder. If he just takes it like a man, then he wouldn't even feel the need to be stronger, he wouldn't feel the urge to be bigger. If he just _grows up_, then he wouldn't even feel this infantile anger at me. But I wouldn't expect him to know anything about growing up. That's why I call him those demeaning names. Because he _is_ a baby, unable to control any of his emotions. Because he deserves it.

Like about an hour ago, when I told him to shut up. I don't even know _what_ was wrong with him then, but I could tell one thing: he was scared. And I remember thinking, _these are the Games, you fool. What did you expect when you heard the words, a round of hide-and-seek?_ And I had to tell him something, I had to make him stop. Not only because I'm the leader, that I enforce the rules and he was jeopardizing my whole pack, risking our cover being blown with his irritating noise, but because I was mad—mad that he was being weak when you have to be strong, mad that he has the gall to almost cry when I _volunteered_ to venture into this hell-hole. I was angry at him for letting himself go, for letting his emotions spill all around him in a mess of childish insecurities.

Ironically, I don't truly _want_ him to be a baby; it wouldn't be fair that he'd get to sob and wail and bawl then get comforted like an immature child. I want him to be _angry_; I want him to painstakingly endeavor to be strong. I want him to break his spine trying to hold the weight of attempting to be bigger, because I lustily feed off of his Sisyphean struggle.

Because I lap his useless efforts up, like a ravenous beast.

And when I saw the hurt in his naively blue eyes because I simply told him to stop making noise, I knew he wasn't worth my attention. I knew he was hopeless, trying to be a Career. I accepted him in because of his score, and because I thought he had fight in him. I thought he was strong, defying me. And now I'm at a stalemate to get rid of him because he's useless if he can't kill, if he can't control his emotions, but then what would killing him look like in the eyes of Panem?

He takes up important space and he wastes precious air, but if I killed him now, with no back-up other than "I don't like him", than I'd be a _true _monster. You would think that that's what the people of the Capitol would like, a ruthless beast that kills his allies without a second thought, and by the slightest provocation.

But no.

I remember hearing talk of the savage cannibal from one of the previous Hunger Games, the tribute that was 'accidentally' killed by an avalanche—even though accidents are nonexistent in the Arena, they're mythical, _not real_. The Capitol audience was not impressed, nor entertained by his crude, untamed methods; therefore it was a must he was to die.

In short, they don't want someone _insane_, they want someone _strong_. They want someone who's a pack leader, who can handle his own weight, someone who makes a final decision without backing down. They want an _adult_.

So if I haphazardly kill this sniveling _boy_, like a hasty and unpredictable lunatic, I'll lose sponsors, I'll lose appeal.

But whatever. It doesn't make a difference. Soon enough, he won't be an inconvenience to me.

I start rounding the sparsely-wooded glade, checking for any signs of life, whether animal or tribute. My extremely sharpened instincts start to rouse, tuning in to this deadly environment. I use my keen eyes, examining for any quiver of a bush, any shake of a leaf. My honed ears pick up every breeze of the wind, every song of a bird, every breath of that girl, Katniss.

She's already packed up, I notice, within the confines of her sleeping bag, between a fork in the tree. She's not sleeping, but she's getting ready to. I won't let her out of my sight though; she's too important.

Ever since that eleven from the Evaluations, I've wanted to kill her. She's a threat—consequently, she must die. But it's actually quite impressive how she's scaled the tree, safe in the canopy; she must have known that was a smart place to hide, far from any predators, and too high for anyone other than her to climb—even higher than _I_ can.

I've been disciplined to extremes, to pains that some people can't even fathom, but I wasn't specialized for hasty, unnecessary techniques like climbing, or survival methods like discerning the difference between a deadly plant and a life-saving panacea.

I've been trained in the Academy for more important things. Backbreaking exercises were my _life_. Either daily sword duels with my trainer, or hazardous obstacle courses with deadly weapons and machinery whizzing at you at the blink of an eye, or rigorous home-relapses that I was assigned to complete, I was always doing something to build my strength. I was always being conditioned for the Games.

One time, a few years back, I was finishing a lap in the obstacle course, my trainer evaluating me, standing at the end of it. It was similar to something like a final exam, a private assessment. And I felt ready to whisk through it and impress him.

I was flowing, seamlessly evading fatal weapons projecting from the walls while simultaneously running, dodging the fire vents from the ground and keeping an eye out for the spinning, spike-strewn columns that lunge at you when you turn your back.

I was perfect, outstanding. I caught a glimpse of my trainer looking at me with an impatient expression, an eyebrow arched, as if he was waiting for me to slip. I remember thinking that I would catch him off guard, I would run through this thing without a scratch and he would have to congratulate me.

I wanted his acknowledgment of my skill because it was the reward of my life. I've been in training as long as I can remember, picking up swords and spears since I was eleven. And from the first day of school, I've always had my trainer there. He's been a figure that I revere. All I've wanted was his congratulation; all I've wanted was for him to be proud of me. He and training have been my blood, my soul, my determination for waking up and blazing through five laps around the track course in the morning.

I wanted him to acknowledge me because recognition is the driving force for _all_ District 2 children. It's a ruthless competition for the top, for the glory, for the fame. Even if you have friends, everyone is—in a way—your opponent. Soon enough, you realize that you're both competitors in the little game of "who can be best?" You're always fighting to have the highest scores on every test and task, because that's what _everything_ in District 2 is: a competition. And after you play the childish game of "I win, you lose", if you're unlucky, you'll get the opportunity to play the _real_ games.

The Hunger Games.

And even though District 2 doesn't like them, I know why we do all of it. I know why there're Careers, why kids like Marvel, Glimmer, Clove, and I are _trained _from the beginning with rigorous exercises and backbreaking courses so we get in shape for the Games. It's because so that we have a larger chance at it. And that's pretty obvious but there's more than that, there's more than the superficial vanities that everyone thinks there are.

There's the fame and the glory and all of it, of winning the Games and then living in a stupor of splendor, cozy in the Victor Village. But just like _every _other District, we're **forced **to send our children out to most likely get killed. We might seem like we're the lapdogs, but just as any other obedient dog, we have to abide to the rules. We have to kneel to the feet of our master, the Capitol. We have to be their pets, because otherwise we'll get punished.

It might seem like we're proud, arrogant monsters that want to win everything and make everyone else lose, but that's not how it is. Everyone from the outside thinks that all we want is for others to lie in the dirt, broken, because we're such egotistical beasts, but completely untrue. Training has etched it into our minds to be determined, to have goals that we have to accomplish, to have a blazing resolve to be the winner. If anything, it teaches us to want to be the best that we can be, and a repercussion for trying our hardest to win the Games is being hated by every poverty-stricken District there is.

And yes, we do get an unfair advantage with the Capitol allowing us to have academies where we train our kids for the Games. But, who wouldn't take advantage…of an advantage? It might be unfair, but if it's to live—because we can't stop the Games, and trust me, we would if we could—then would anyone turn down that offer? Would anyone want to make it _harder _for themselves to win—to _live_?

No, and that's why we train our kids. That's why we _help_ ourselves. Because we want our children coming back as much as every other District does.

Because believe it or not, we want to live, too.

And in a way, we're still the victims of the Capitol. We have to send our children off to what might scar their lives, or even steal them forever.

Because it's not that we enjoy the Games; we don't wake up on Reaping Day with a smile plastered on our faces. We don't like what they make us do. But if there's a way that we might be able to make it easier, if there's a way that we can help ourselves from dying, whether training our children or raising them with the thought that they have to be their best, we will gladly go that way, if it means living.

I've always been with the mind-set that I will be in the Games, like every other Career District child has been born with. I've always had it in my brain to train my heart and muscles to exhaustion so I can be strong when I get into the Arena. Along with the recognition, pride, fame, and glory that every Career District kid has been raised to strive for, I've grown up thinking that I was supposed to be in the Games. It's been my sole determination, my greatest goal.

That's why I volunteered.

Because the Games were injected into my blood ever since I was a kid. Because they're the only things that have been on my mind since age eleven.

But I still wonder about Clove's opinion on being a tribute; she didn't volunteer like I.

I've only seen her for a few, fleeting moments before in the halls of the Academy, her being a year younger than me. And when she was picked, when her slip was drawn, I wondered what ran through her mind when she heard her name.

I didn't ask her on the train ride or in the Training Center, mainly because we spent too much time devising plans and strategies for the Games that we didn't have any intimate, heart-to-ruthless-heart moments, but also because it's not helpful or relevant to know anything about her life at home.

The less I know, the better; getting attached is the _worst _thing that you could do. And I think she knew that, too.

I also didn't ask her because it seemed like that would be unnecessarily intrusive. I didn't want to squeeze into her life at home because that's not what we came here to do: mindlessly gush our feelings out as if that'll be the only thing gushing from our bodies if we aren't serious. She's such a stolid, unbreakable character, I wouldn't dare try to crack into her stony exterior, because it wouldn't do any good having abrasive relations with your own District partner in the Arena. So I respected her unwavering dignity and opted not to ask anything about life at home, focusing on the task at hand, and she, vice versa.

Almost every time we got a chance to sit together, we've been strategizing how to do everything—how to lead the other Careers, who will do what job, what our game plan will be for the bloodbath—everything except the end, because no one can think about that right now. We have a set destiny to fulfill, and the only one that will break it is the other, because more than often, District 2 tributes win. And considering the competition this year—my mind instantly flies to Peeta—it's not hard to imagine one of us being the victor.

If I don't win the Games, I want her to; I bet that just like me, her life has been nothing but the Games—_nothing_, but the Games.

But when she walked up that stage with such an austere face and such confidence within her gait, I couldn't help but wonder if there was some hidden trepidation, just a tiny bit of anxiousness by the chance she might lose her life.

If there _was_, she didn't show it.

But I do know why she was so stoic when walking up. I do know why she stepped up on to that stage with such pride and determination, like she knew she was going to win this thing.

Because the Games are in her blood as well.

Because her drive is the same as mine: glory, pride, _recognition_.

Recognition because that's what District 2 children have been taught to fight for, because that's the only thing that we've been raised to strive in the name of.

And that's why, when I was weaving through that obstacle course at the end of the term, all that was on my mind was to make my trainer proud, to be so outstanding that he would _have _to congratulate me, because that's what we need, us District 2 children, acknowledgement of our skill. I've always wanted him to give me that rare, proud smile, because I fed off of it; it was the fuel to my burning fire; it was the water to my tree of life.

It was the meat on my bones.

And when I was twisting myself and dodging a myriad of deadly equipments, it was all I was thinking about. I was ready to earn it for beating this obstacle course. I was ready to get it after that because it was my last and final one before the school term ended, my deciding one. I was ready to receive it, and I was ready to bask in the glory of being acknowledged.

I was whisking past large, deadly spikes precariously jutting from the ground, dodging past vents that throw tall fires from their mouths strewn across the metal floor. There were walls to both of my sides, made to emanate the feeling of being trapped, with various machinery rapidly ejecting out of them at a moment's notice. I made a mental note to not lean against them. I was merely thirty meters from my goal—the end, where my trainer stands, acting bored, as if I wasn't excellent.

And suddenly, while I was dodging a spike, out from what seemed like thin air, I saw a shuriken fly at my face.

I remember thinking for a split second how unusual its presence was; I never saw a shuriken in the obstacle course before. It was never part of the protocol. It wasn't supposed to be there.

I quickly veered my head, and it grazed my neck. I almost tripped onto a fire, but I let my left hand maintain my balance on a wall for a moment, and then I realized it was a trick. It was there to mess me up, to see if I could anticipate and act swiftly to the unpredictable, I had found out. They were testing my adapting skills, I concluded.

I was thrilled, a new and sudden rush of heated adrenaline coursing through me. I was excited that I actually did it, that I actually dodged it with minor injuries, just my neck was bleeding and that didn't even matter considering my short distance from the finish. I was sure that my trainer was proud of me, that he was going to congratulate me like he rarely does because he knows how much I feed off of it. And I started to get in my stance to try to bound for the finish again.

But that was when it hit me.

A blunt projection off the wall rapidly crawling on a sideways conveyor belt targeted towards my left hand, the hand I was resting.

It came into swift contact with my forearm, and I still remember the sound of my radius fracturing.

It was so powerful, it forced me off, and I almost fell onto a spike jutting from the ground. But I caught myself and steadied my stumbling feet in time to realize the damages.

The pain was agonizing.

It felt like my arm was steeped deep in oil, then suddenly ignited into a ferocious holocaust, like every single cell that formed my forearm was screaming at me, shrieking furious insults about my idiotic mistake to rest for a moment, as if it was heatedly scolding me for my mindless blunder to let my guard down. With every breath, with every drop of blood that fueled its anguishing inferno, searing, relentless pain raced through my arm, burning my flesh. I could see the contorted and mangled expression of pure anger that my arm took, crimson red and twisted beyond what I thought was reasonable repair. It felt like every single fragment of my shattered bone was wreaking havoc within my skin, exacting its revenge on me for being such an _imbecile_.

I felt like my arm despised me, and it was giving me a punishment.

But with the explosion of adrenaline, and the impending risk of another injury, I forced my legs to rush out of that death-trap as fast as I could.

I jumped a spike. I dodged a pillar. I did everything in my disciplined ability to escape with no more wounds, to escape with my life.

I felt like falling down. I felt like just giving up and dying, because with every contraction of my muscles, a new, consuming wave of pain devoured my forearm, eating it alive. I have never been in that type of pain before; I've always kept myself in check, always been cautious and vigilant. But when I stupidly let my guard down for that single second, I had to break my arm.

Desperately running to the finish, my forearm incessantly screaming and screeching pain as if it's a sound, I was thinking about how I had never had something happen to me like this. The searing, burning pain was all so new that I wanted to just cut my whole arm off so I wouldn't have to deal with it anymore. I seriously contemplated on doing the deed then and there with one of those deadly weapons, like what's already happened to some of my other classmates.

But I knew that wasn't an option. I wasn't there, running for my life, just to give up. I was trained for my whole childhood for this, an opportunity that would decide if I was worthy. I was ready for this and I wouldn't let a single feeling—not even primitive pain—hinder the sweet prospect of victory, of winning when they thought I wouldn't. I knew what my trainer wanted wanted; I knew what I would have to do to pass that test with flying colors.

I would have to man up and grit my teeth through this. They have hospitals in District 2. I wouldn't be just left to die.

I could see my trainer, examining me, when I'm just a few meters away.

I lunged out of the reach of a deadly fire vent and resorted to rolling across the floor, my arm instantly disagreeing with my decision and punishing me with a flare of intense pain. But I got over it, because I was there. I was at the finish line, at the edge of the obstacle course. I was safe. And there was my trainer, standing in front me, while I was kneeling down, trying to get up.

My radius has been infuriated, agitating the cells beneath my skin, raging with some sort of primordial anger I couldn't even clearly focus on because its fiery ire inhibited my senses from sharpening. I was stumbling, trying to gain my boundaries and not trip over my own feet, the adrenaline quickly flushing out of my system and leaving me with an empty, buzzing feeling, my senses extremely exhausted and depleted of energy. But it didn't matter at the moment because I was there, in front of my evaluator.

I had won, and it felt so empowering.

He looked down at me, and scribbled something on his clipboard, taking his time. He then rested his hand to his side and looked at me again, his face devoid of emotion. I thought a smile was going to appear. I thought that his eyes were going to start twinkling in pride, and then he would help me to an I.C.U. I thought he was going to be happy that I went through all that _torture_ and didn't kill myself.

But all he did was curtly nod in my direction, and then proceed to leave the room with a "Your results will be displayed next school day by the Main Entrance".

The blistering fury radiating in my arm was a mere _cut_ in comparison to my ferocious anger towards him at that moment.

I wasn't furious that he was just walking off without a second glance.

I wasn't in a state of rage because of his inconsideration.

I was ready to rip his head off.

With my teeth.

Almost intoxicated with the exploding pain and anger in my body, the two primitive sensations mixing and churning within me in a deadly brew of festering fury, I trudged myself outside the door, following him to do god knows what, and was drowned in the harsh light of day. My pupils instantly reacted, constricting upon contact to the burning sunlight, severely debilitating my vision.

I couldn't see everything that happened, what with my incapacitated senses and the searing, unimaginable pain. But I could make out the feathery silhouettes of the Academy students cowering away from me in fear; I could scarcely hear the muffled sounds of their alarmed shrieks. The scorching heat only topped to my already pain-induced stupor, and with all the cries of those irritating people, I only remember there being darkness after that.

I had fainted, the pain, the emotions, the noise, all too much for my body to bear.

I woke up in a hospital, nurses attending me like I'm some poor, pity-worthy boy.

My left arm had been in a cast for months, and the cut on my neck from the shuriken had scarred into a shriveled, whitish mass of tissue. But to this day, there are barely any tell-tale signs of that event.

I broke my arm, and my trainer broke my pride.

I felt like I was burning inside with my fury at him.

I broke. My arm.

And he simply **nodded**. He nodded as if I evaded a pebble, instead of a deadly spike. He nodded as if I jumped a matchstick, instead of a blazing fire. He nodded as if I splintered my arm, instead of fractured

my fucking radius.

He treated me like I accomplished the most insignificant, most useless task ever known to man and that he was _obligated _to at least **nod**. I trudged through the worst type of pain I was ever forced to endure, without a single tear. And he **nodded**.

I felt like ripping something to shreds so badly that I was willing to lacerate my own skin, in the hopes that my insides wouldn't boil to oblivion with this bottled-up fury; I felt like releasing it all at once, like letting my body explode so it would all just flush out me and I wouldn't have to suffer through the anguish.

I wasn't unfamiliar to the emotion of anger. I've been born with a lack of control of my temper. Ever since I was a kid, I used to smash valuable—and particularly expensive—items and obliterate anything in my way when I was angry. I just couldn't keep it in check; it was like something out of my hands, something that possessed my mind, like something that wasn't a part of me but started being violent whenever I was angry. I was put into temper management classes since I was little, and they helped slightly. But still, my anger has leaked out then and again, like at the hospital.

So it wasn't strange that I was ready to tear my skin off just so the burning feeling of that suppressed anger would just exit my body and I wouldn't have to feel it slowly eat me away. It wasn't unusual—at least to me—that I wanted all that filthy, festering rage to just leave my body at once in a burst of expulsion so I wouldn't have to suffer feeling this angry.

I have tried to make myself calmer like I've been taught, but it didn't work; all that came up when I closed my eyes was my trainer's inconsiderate face.

I shouldn't have been that angry like I wanted nothing but him to burn in hell, but my anger was always over-exaggerated; I've always used to blow things out of proportions in that way. I was born like that. But nonetheless, it wasn't natural for a human being to feel that angry just because he didn't "congratulate" me. Even though the only thing that I've been raised to strive for, the only thing that I've been born to want with a greedy passion wasn't given to me when I broke my arm for it, it still wasn't normal to want him to _suffer_ for it. I wanted my skill to be acknowledged. Badly. But I should've kept my emotions in control. And I didn't.

Then one day, my trainer visited me in the hospital to shed light on his actions.

He entered and walked towards me without caution, as if it was a normal visit, as if I wasn't burning with anger from his presence.

I felt my rage flare up at the sight of him, wanting nothing but to make him feel the pain I did—give him a piece of his own medicine. But he just stood at the foot of my bed, as if he couldn't feel the hatred radiating from my body.

I glared away out the window, trying to bury the blazing inferno of unnecessary resentment under piles of indifference. It wasn't working; I could feel my teeth argue in pain at my clenched jaw, and the strong breaths through my nose probably exhaled as fire. But I didn't really care anymore that my anger was showing; I wanted him to know that…that my feelings were hurt.

_Dammit, why do I get so angry so easily? _I thought, frustrated. He didn't do anything specifically offensive at all. He was just inconsiderate, not even helping me get to a hospital; I knew I shouldn't have felt that angry at him, but it felt like the rage possessed me again, like it always did.

My temper problems got the best of me, and my true side was pushed into the dark, unacknowledged.

"Why are you here?" the anger within me spoke, a dark and demonic voice bellowing out of my mouth, fogging up the window I was still staring out of.

He stayed stolid, unchanged, as if I didn't even speak. He probably was at a loss at what to say to my furious face, but the angry part of my mind interpreted him as ignoring me, and I felt another flare of rage.

"Cato," he said with what my narrow mind heard as scorn, and it only threw oil onto my fire.

_That bastard is angry at me? I ran through that fucking course with a __**broken arm**__, and he's angry? _I thought. He probably wasn't, but at that point, the only thing I could see was red, and the only thing I could hear was insults.

"I asked why you're here," I spat with acidic venom. I was surprised the window didn't start melting from my breath.

"Cato," he barked with that strong authority that I have been engineered to be scared of, and unintentionally, I found myself flinching at his harsh tone, but I caught myself and steadied my expression. "I'm here to teach you a lesson, if you'd shut up for one second."

My anger had quickly retrogressed and I felt myself riled up again, but he continued to talk, and I continued to listen because it's become second nature for me to obey him; he was my trainer, and I, his pupil.

"You always let your anger take control of you like this," he said sternly, and while it was true, while my conscience was _screaming_ at me it was true, I wouldn't believe it because my bullheadedness was barricading anything other than anger to infiltrate my psyche. Fuck my temper management problems.

"Anger?" I spoke through gritted teeth, but the venom still found a way through. I had swiftly turned my head in his direction, shooting him a deadly, narrowed glare with my eyes. "I have every right. Why did you just leave me there? I broke my fucking arm. Did you even notice?" I let the words that have been trapped at the back of mouth escape, and it felt like a portion of the anger has been released, but not nearly all of it.

"Did _you_ think I didn't know you were going to find a way to a hospital?" he asked, and I was at a loss at what to say. _Yes? No? I don't fucking know. Quit playing mind games with me, you inconsiderate bastard, _was all that was running through my mind, but he kept talking before I could voice my thoughts. "I was sure you were going to be fine, and I knew that your arm would heal," he spoke with finality, and it was all true, all of it. I felt lost at how to defend myself, because it was true; it wasn't like my life was at any danger after I finished the course; I wasn't _dying_.

But it didn't excuse him for being a negligent trainer. I was still in intense pain and he just left me like it was a measly cut.

"Yeah, but it's not like I was alright. I fractured my radius and you just left like it didn't matter. Who does that? I don't get you," I said, my ire gradually lessening, and what was left being curiosity as to his reasons.

"You think you'll get someone to kiss your wounds away in the Arena?" he growled, and it was as if the anger draining out of me was quickly filling him. He shouldn't have been angry, I thought; I didn't do anything wrong, _he_ did. He was being so enigmatic. "You think that there will be nurses there, waiting to fix all your broken bones?" he said.

I was dumbfounded, unable to defend myself because I could almost see where he was going, and it actually made sense.

"All that I do to you, Cato, is for the Games. Every single action is towards helping you to be the victor," he said, "and if I have to be cold to you to get it into your dense head that you won't get any special treatment in the Arena, then so be it."

My tongue could not form words.

"I acted like I didn't care because if you let your petty emotions bleed into the Games, you might as well be literally bleeding, because then you're a goner."

"I-I…"

"Now quit being a baby and get out of this hospital so you can start training again," he said, slamming the door to my room shut, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

_Fuck, _I thought. _He's right. About everything._

Realization had dropped onto me like a ton of solid, stony bricks, and I was left under the crushing weight, left to practically suffocate from all the regret.

I had finally understood his motives, the motives that I couldn't comprehend and was absolutely enraged at.

It was always for the Games. Every trainer—and student—knew that. It was all for the Games, for the glory, for recognition, for fame. Every single drop of sweat was put for the Games. Every single wave of pain. Every single injury.

All for the Games.

My trainer had me realize something of imperativeness about the Games that day, that they are infinitely more than simply fighting and brawling techniques. That they're much more than merely learning how to wield a weapon and use it correctly in battle. We in the Career Districts get an advantage because we're taught how to fight, a position far larger than a few days in the Training Center in the Capitol. But we have an even larger advantage because of what our trainers teach us subconsciously—or for my case, _taught _me.

The Games are more than throwing punches or slashing swords. They are—as the name implies—games of emotion, games of trickery and cunning. They are the types of games where if you have a poker face, you are more likely to win. They are games of strategy, of brains, not brawns.

I remembered one time watching a Game. There was a girl that year who always clung to every boy she could, throwing her chest around at whatever hormone-filled male she could find, making them drool for her. She was a ditzy airhead in my opinion, making it her resolve to force every teenager with a penis on their knees, to her feet.

She killed every boy she slept with.

Until one smart boy killed her.

Yes, he was gay.

I remembered another Game that had this eerily shy, little kid. He wouldn't talk at all; he wouldn't make a single noise. Not one utterance was heard from his mouth by his mentor, escort, District partner, or even when he was alone in the Arena with not a single thing around him except for the cameras. There was _literally _no recorded evidence of his voice box ever being used. No matter if he was deep in the woods, or in front of another tribute, you could've mistaken him for an Avox; _I _almost did.

Until he tricked someone into leaning their ear into his mouth to hear a "secret".

He slit their throat.

I had found out, that the Games are more than knowing how to flail a weapon around in circles with the hopes of hitting someone. They're opportunities for artifices. They're places where you can stoop to the lowest, vilest methods of trickery.

They're places where the gullible hold no flags.

If you are so to trust someone for a _second_, it's the same as tearing off all your plates of armor and kneeling down to the will of that person. It's the same as taking your "friend's" knife, and impaling your own abdomen yourself, before they even have to lift a finger. It's the same as breaking down all your defenses and willingly_ letting _your enemies attack you.

If you trust someone in the Games, you're as good as dead.

If you let your emotions act for you, then you might as _well _be dead.

What my trainer taught me that day, was more valuable than any sword technique he would ever teach me.

I had let my emotions take control that day, like they always used to have, and I learned it was the most idiotic thing I could ever do.

He acted like he didn't care because I can't expect that in the Arena; I would have to be self-sufficient, and unwavering.

From then on, I have locked my emotions away, deep within a dark, abyssal corner of my heart. I have learned to think with my mind, not my feelings, the feelings that I've caged within me, a cage that I've lost the key to and will never find. For the Games, I've jailed all of my emotions away, where they can rot to death, because I can't be a victor if I use those petty things. I can't win—I can't live—if I let emotions run me, because they're a sign of weakness.

From then on, I've trained up to this day without a single tear, without a single flare of anger, because I know that useless emotions only make you vulnerable, they only make you easily influenced, and that is _not _something I want to be. Emotions make you want to trust people, make you want to be attached, which is the worst thing that you can do in the Arena. They make you weak and defenseless, and that is **far** from my goals.

I've learned to incarcerate them, bind them down, bar them shut so they won't ever release again, so they won't go rampant through my bloodstream. I've learned to lock them up behind welded bars of indifference and detachment, where they won't ever break free and make me weak again, make me feel again. If just for the Games, my emotions have been jailed within my heart, and I can't tell how long their sentence is.

Honestly, I couldn't care less; it'd be better if I didn't have them, so there wouldn't be that sliver of a chance they were to ever escape their solitary confinement.

So yes, I wasn't trained in frivolous, trivial techniques like climbing a tree, as that girl, Katniss, somehow was. I was trained in something much more useful.

I was trained in how to win this.


	10. Heartless

Chapter Ten

* * *

The Lion II

After I searched every side of each leaf in a mile radius, I've started to lean against the same tree the "Girl on Fire" is perched on, who's cozy in her sleeping bag, probably unaware of the quickly dropping forest temperature. Night's curtain is drawing across the lavender sky, I notice. A faint breeze plays at my skin, sending reflexive goose bumps up my naked arms. The air is beginning to chill, and I can tell tonight is going to be a long night. It's a few minutes past sunset, the Gamemakers probably making that possible in such a short amount of time, and a few, sparse rays of sunlight still paint the artificial sky. I can see the moon has made an appearance, blooming out like a radiant flower on to the opposite side of the sun, reflecting its light from its wide, glowing face like a candle.

Whenever I see the moon, I'm reminded of Artemis, the Greek goddess of the hunt. And it's ironic that right above me is another huntress; I've seen her make those snares and identify plants in less than a second in the Training Center. I could tell, she's been in the wild for a long time of her life, and my beliefs were confirmed when she told Glimmer to throw her bow and arrows up, that she would teach her how to use it. I can tell that Katniss is a huntress, and I wonder if Artemis will try to help her live.

I don't truly believe in the Greek and Roman gods and goddesses, but I've learned about them so much in my school that they frequently come to mind. Whenever District 2 children aren't training in the Academy, we're taking courses in classes, but almost all of it is about strategy for the Games. Most of the classes we take relate to winning the Games in some way, like our math; we mainly learn about trigonometry and trajectory, mostly methods that we can utilize in a war situation, with weapons like ballistae that throw round objects like meteors. And our sciences correlate to the health and the anatomy of a human body, so we know what we're doing when an injury or infection happens in the Arena.

But the Greek and Roman gods and goddesses…I've always thought that the Capitol has an obsession of them. I think we learn about the gods and goddesses in District 2 because the Capitol citizens are utterly fascinated by them; I've seen statues of Zeus and Poseidon all around the Capitol through the train windows. They seem to idealize them, erecting marble replicas of their perfect and omnipotent characteristics. They seem to have an obsession over them because they want to _be _like them, they want to be as powerful, as supreme, as eternal. It's actually hard _not _to notice their infatuation with the Roman culture, what with sending people to fight to their death in an Arena that's awfully similar in structure to the Coliseum. I think we in District 2 have been taught as much Greek and Roman mythology as we have the Maths and Sciences, because the Capitol worships the gods and goddesses, trying to mimic their lives and cultures. Because I bet they want to be just as immortal.

But nonetheless, I've grown learning everything about the gods and goddesses: what they symbolize, they're family trees, how they affect the world—or how they were _thought _to affect the world. And I manage to make a relation between most of the things that happen in my life and something concerning Greek and Roman mythology.

I always make the analogy of me being like Atlas, the Titan who was condemned to hold Ouranos, the sky, away from Gaia, the earth. According to legend, Ouranos and Gaia were in love, and as many times as they collided against each other in an embrace, a Titan was born. But soon enough, the Titans were overruled by the Gods, and Atlas was punished by having to be kept under Ouranos, physically preventing the tremendous sky on his shoulders from meeting the expansive earth beneath his feet, so that no more of his brethren could be born.

He was forced to hold the sky atop his back, and sometimes I like to think I'm similar to him, having to keep my life in balance between my training and my classes. I've been in training since I was eleven years old, which is much younger than the average District 2 child, having to keep up my skill against the older competition. And I've also had to keep above the test scores of the other students in the Academy, because as I said, everything is a contest. Every test is a fierce fight to get the highest score, because every other student wants to be the best, too. I've had to balance the part of my life that is the Games atop my shoulders, where it held the risk of being too much weight to handle and likely snap my spine, and at that same time I've had to keep the part of my life that is the Academy beneath my feet, where I wanted everyone else to be below me, so I could be at the top.

It's not hard to believe that I think of myself with a burden similar to Atlas'.

"We're baaack!" Glimmer shrills in an ugly sing-song voice from within the trees, severely crashing my train of thought into a wreck.

I see her walking to me, Marvel alongside her, sleeping bags and backpacks with food alike between their arms. I roll my eyes at her wasted enthusiasm. It still manages to surprise me how she's so _happy _all the time. It also manages to grate my nerves apart.

I've learned to keep my emotions in check, locking them behind bars so they wouldn't ever invade my purely strategic mind, but to me it looks like she's unleashed hers from all types of boundaries, letting them loose to run rampant through her blood. I don't know why she doesn't show that third side of her more; it certainly is more intimidating and skillful.

She sickens me because I know she doesn't have a chance here if she doesn't get serious, and it doesn't even look like she cares, like she just lets stuff happen, only a spectator. I don't know where _she's_ gone to train—not the Academy for sure.

They drop their content on the damp ground in front of the tree.

"I'm cold," Glimmer whines, arranging the sleeping bags on the forest floor.

"Here's a jacket," Marvel says, tossing her a jacket from one of his bags, subservient as ever. I begin to wonder how much of a chance he's got at winning this thing. I conclude that it's larger than I initially thought, because if he continues to keep good relations with us like this, then I bet it'll be harder for some of us to kill him if the time comes by, and I bet he knows it, too.

"Thanks!" she replies, bouncing over to him and planting a quick kiss on the cheek.

I almost gag on my vomit.

He simply smirks and tosses a "no problem" at her.

I'm not disgusted by her kissing him, because I know there isn't anything behind the two; I haven't sensed any tender warmth between them when in the Training Center, or even in the Arena for that matter. Glimmer is just an overactive, impulsive little girl, and it was just a little peck, nothing more.

But what I'm disgusted at—and always was—is how she always lets her emotions act for her. She thinks she can do whatever she pleases without any consequences, kissing and flirting here and there like there's no tomorrow. She starts anything with just a mere impetus, a tiny push, and she does mindless things that annoy me because that's **not what you do here**: be a brainless moron.

I break from my rant to assist in assembling the equipment, falling into a silent rhythm while Marvel and Glimmer report to me the conditions back at camp.

* * *

After what seems like a few minutes, we hear the rhythmic rustling of the soggy pine needles and hitch our heads up to the sight of Clove and Peeta approaching us, twigs piled high in their arms.

"Yay! You guys are back!" I don't think you need me to tell you who that is.

"No," Clove says. "We're still looking for firewood." Her sarcasm is dryer than the twigs in her arms.

Glimmer smiles obliviously, acting unaware of the fact that Clove replied. I bet the girl from District 1 is just trying to keep that dangerous, zealous side of her from showing. But why? Why does she never show that side that seems to be skillful and strong, instead opting to be an ignorant princess?

And then it hits me.

Maybe it's for the best. Maybe she generates this artificially exaggerated face because it'll just be better, because if she starts being unwavering and unrelenting, then that would probably darken things in this pack and only make relationships abrasive sooner than when wanted.

Every Game's Career alliance begins to dissolve at some point. I've seen it happen every time. In the Academy, our classes stress greatly on trying to keep the bonds between each other strong and sustain the longevity of the alliance as long as possible, for example, teaching us that in a situation where the leader dies to quickly elect a new leader before anarchy erupts, or in the event that one member is found attempting to kill the other to swiftly end their life before chaos between both tributes start to ensue.

So I think what Glimmer might be trying to do is keep our relationships light and airy with her bubbly and overenthusiastic personality, whether it _is_ fake or not. She might be this cheery because she doesn't wish for the pack to fall apart, she wants to keep it glued together as long as possible, as she has probably been taught to do. An assumption for her overly-bright attitude could be that she actually feels she has a duty to this alliance by trying to keep the bonds strong, that she actually _is _holding her own weight in a way by helping the mood be light all the time and sustain the longevity.

Or maybe another explanation for her fabricated attitude could be for the sponsors. Maybe that is her angle, her 'personality', something she probably talked to her mentor about. Maybe that's what they agreed on her being like, so she would get the highest appeal, so she would get sponsors, so she can survive. Maybe she's smarter than I initially thought.

I'm not sure of my assumptions, but I know one thing about her attitude for sure: it's purely strategic. And I almost feel impressed.

Clove drops her content on the ground, snapping me into reality. Peeta mimics her, and my District partner begins to construct a fire pit, without my orders.

I like Clove for that; she puts in an effort to help the gang without having to be pushed around. I've learned in my leadership classes that you have to be domineering and superior so that the other Careers will bend to your will as a team, so that you can make a pack, you being the alpha. But Clove, I like her because she doesn't need to be dominated and commanded to do her job. She already has it in her list to start the fire, because she's ready to hold her share of the weight. She knows what she has to do, and she's serious about this.

Even though she's a year younger than me, I feel like Clove's serious aura could embody someone much older than her. And she isn't even much shorter than me. I would estimate by almost an inch. Everything about her, from her unwavering, resolute stature, to her jet-black, raven hair, radiates a blazing determination.

Well, she _is _from District 2.

She has a purpose, and it's obvious that she is decided and fixed on being her best, on winning.

Unlike Glimmer who just sits on her sleeping bag, eating some beef jerky from her stash.

Even though now that I think the girl from District 1 might be helping the Career pack in that unnoticeable and subtle way, she's still non-diligent, which I do not appreciate.

I shake my head and start to assist Clove with her duty, collecting stones to circle the fire pit and gathering dry pine needles for tinder.

I don't tell anyone else what to do because there isn't anything else left _to _do, other than make some dinner and wait for the desire for food to be too strong for Katniss, hoping that she slides down the tree to steal some, then ambushing her.

Since there isn't much to do other than that, everyone else starts to mill around, getting cozy on their sleeping bags or already starting to eat some snack.

The whole area has gone quiet, other than the comforting white noise of the soft rustlings of a sleeping bag, or the shuffling of feet, or the snaps of the twigs breaking between mine and Clove's hands. Everyone is relaxed and laid-back, nothing to do other than the small, surmountable tasks in the clear future. The whole scene has started to feel comfy, as if we're just working or sitting and there's no real motive behind it.

I've started to despise moments like these.

All they do is shroud our vision from the inevitable. All they do is make us blind to what will soon have to happen, giving us a false sense of comfort, of safety. Because soon enough, this ground that we're comfortably shuffling around on will be stained with most of our blood. And these imitation feelings of lazing around only make us slower and dumber, only cast a haze into the future so we can't see far enough to tell what will truly happen and only notice how pleasant we're feeling **at this moment**, making us oblivious to what we will have to do to survive in this wretched place.

I don't enjoy the false sense that all of us will be leaving this place.

Alive.

* * *

After the fire is born by Clove's adept hands—she's taken more survival classes in the Academy than _I_ have, for sure—the group assembles around the warm blaze that casts an eerie glow on Katniss's empty countenance. The "Girl on Fire" has already gone to sleep, knowing that she'll need it.

We lazily consume a portion of the stash of food Marvel and Glimmer brought in from camp.

When the two tributes from District 1 came back with the supplies, they had reported on camp conditions as well, telling me how everything was running with only that scrawny kid from District 3 guarding it.

Apparently, everything's fine. The camp is safe, the kid is intact, and the mines are all set around the supply heap. The kid told Marvel and Glimmer he'll teach us where those mines are set, so we won't blow ourselves—and our supplies—to bits.

Hah! If that happens, I'd lose my sanity.

And for good measure, Marvel made the kid demonstrate it for him in person so he knew the kid wasn't lying and planning on killing us.

My mind starts to contemplate on who will have to kill him. Hey, it has to happen sooner or later. I let him in because he was of use, and know that he isn't of much anymore, I'm going to have to start thinking about his death.

Of course, I can't just offhandedly snap his neck when we come back. Because just like my dilemma with Peeta, that wouldn't be attractive, nor appealing.

I'm going to have to do it around the end, when the stakes grow higher, and the tension rises. Hell, maybe it'll even relieve some of the unavoidable tension in the group if he dies; we wouldn't have to worry about some dead weight wasting our limited food and using our precious air. But of course, not anytime soon. I will have to distinguish when.

"Peeta?" Glimmer splits my thoughts in half with her ringing voice. She's sitting next to the blond boy, a shocked expression plastered on her face, gawking at his biceps. "D'you work out?" she asks inquisitively, impressed and surprised at the same time, groping his arm like a doctor palpating for tumors.

It's just gross.

"No," he nervously laughs, obviously uncomfortable, yet she continues to abuse the defenseless boy. His muscles _are _strangely plump, though, what with being from one of the most destitute Districts of Panem, it caught me off guard. I've learned of the lack of food from that grimy place, so I was taken by surprise when I noticed his awfully large muscularity in the Training Center. But it still doesn't change the fact he doesn't know how to use it well.

"Then how are your muscles so big?" She smiles with that inherent-to-only-District-1, charming smile, laughing warmly.

I _do_ wonder though how his muscles have grown to that size if the only thing he could've been eating is bread and pastries from his bakery…

"I pick up a lot of flour sacks at home," he says, a blush dusting his pale cheeks. "I guess over the years it's helped…?" he ends his sentence as a question, making me roll my eyes at his timid, child-like voice. His voice almost exemplifies his shy personality, but I would be wrong if I said he doesn't show a little flare of flagrancy now and then, every time directed towards me.

"Really?" Glimmer asks, "That's cool."

_That's cool? _

I bet she didn't hear a _word_ he said, her fabricated veil of peppiness too dense for anything to penetrate it.

Marvel just sits in his spot, preoccupied with quenching his insatiable hunger with a greasy groosling leg. And for my District partner, I'm not surprised; she couldn't care less if she tried, chewing nonchalantly at her food, not even lifting an eye to see the love-fest unfolding before her. If anything, she's probably annoyed that the two are flirting—Glimmer being the actual one flirting—annoyed just like I am.

They're silly game is stretching my nerves thin, because not only is it _utterly _**stupid **to have a relationship in the Arena—my mind instantly recalls that girl that killed every boy she slept with—it's also a hopelessly lost cause because sooner or later one of them will have to die.

Boom, their canon sounds.

Done.

End of cheesy love story.

No refunds.

Glimmer strings an arm through Peeta's, juxtaposing their biceps. "See!" she says with her irritatingly chirpy voice. "You're so buff! It's not even fair."

Okay this is getting _really _annoying.

Will she just stop with this inevitable-to-fall-down-a-cliff flirting? Because it's starting to grate my nerves to nonexistence how oblivious and idiotic she's being.

_Do you really not get it that you. Will. Die? Get serious, _I try to say, but the words stay stuck in my head, unwilling to make an appearance, bouncing around the irritated walls of my mind because while I _am _the leader and have the greatest say in this pack, I understand I'm not in much of a position to tell anyone how to go with their doomed love-lives.

So I just let the two morons have their fun, eating uncaringly, until the next thing happens.

In between Glimmer's giggling and winks, and Peeta's dark blushes, I glimpse the edge of a white parachute, and the shine of a silver canister.

It makes a soft thud as it falls to the ground behind Peeta and Glimmer, obstructed from my vision by their bodies.

"Ah! A sponsor gift!" Glimmer cheers, untying her arm from Peeta's to grab and hold the spherical container in the glowing light of the fire for all of us to see.

I genuinely wonder what's inside.

It's only the second day of the Games, and considering how prices for gifts inflate dramatically when nearing the _end_, it's not _that _surprising to see the gift in Glimmer's hands, reflecting the fire's light off its chrome surface and giving me a sight of mine, Marvel's, and Clove's inquisitive faces. But I wonder what we _did_ that moved a sponsor enough to reward us for our efforts.

Glimmer opens the canister enthusiastically, letting the cover pop open and block my vision of its content.

She pulls out a note that a mentor must have given.

"Hey! It's from Cashmere, Marvel!" she chirps, and I just want to know what the damn thing has inside of it instead of who it's from.

"It says: Good job, sweetie. Keep being sweet," Glimmer says while cheerfully reading the slip, and the words bewilder me. I know that a mentor gets a short amount of time to write the note that they pass on to their tributes, and the standards that deem a note acceptably vague and appropriately relevant make it hard to be blunt on what the mentor wants you to do; every single word, every letter, every _dot _is resourcefully used for a reason and is there to give you a clue. I've learned that from the Academy. So why the repetition of the word "sweet"?

And then I understand when Glimmer fishes out a handful of sweethearts from the canister.

"Peeta, sweethearts! They're so yummy. I've always liked this type of candy."

Oh. Of course.

She pops a few in her mouth and hands a handful to Peeta.

"Look, one says 'Keep it going'," she giggles, "this one: 'I love you guys!'" Then she kisses him on his crimson red cheek. "Hey, gotta 'keep it going'," she beams.

The acidic vomit in my throat is refusing to go down without a fight, along with my newborn anger.

_They got a gift…for being idiots? _That was the straw that broke the camel's back. My nerves have been grated away into a powder, a fine powder that suffocates and agitates my insides.

They're getting _rewarded _for being **stupid**!

I understand that the Capitol audience must be entertained by watching there being some love connection between the two, what with the drama of Peeta and Katniss 'loving' each other—even though I probably smashed that into dust—but it still annoys the hell out of me that they're getting rewarded for doing the most foolish and most mindless thing that you could _ever _do in the Arena:

Let your emotions out.

I hate the idea that they think it's _smart _and _rewarding _to have a relationship between themselves, because in truth, it's so senselessly idiotic that I can't even _begin_ to describe how much of a terrible mistake it is, not just for themselves but now for my pack because this will not—_cannot_—end well.

If they continue with this ridiculous nonsense, thinking it'll get more sponsors and that people like it, then it will only bring up bad weather in the future for the Careers—for _my _Careers—when the tension grows. The fragile and brittle bonds between Careers are meant to be kept and sustained for as long as possible as merely alliances, and if these two irritating love-birds let it grow to be something stronger between themselves than what they have with the rest of the crew, suspicions will begin to emerge about their loyalty to the pack as a whole, and that will quickly grow the acidic tension between us, dissolving my pack before it has to. Because if those two feel this encouraged to keep it going, and if we, the Careers, start to _feel _their infatuation for each other, it will only make us on edge, scared that they'll start to betray us in the name of their 'love'. It's bad for the Careers because if they continue with this show, letting it fester into something risky, then it'll grow our suspicions of what they'll be willing to do to keep their love intact.

This is an irrational, unreasonable, and absolutely nonstrategic decision for them to continue flirting; I must discourage them, because I'm the leader. I must interrupt their love-fest because it's jeopardizing the alliance from staying alive as long as possible; who knows if Glimmer and Peeta will run off into the woods, trying to keep their appearances of loving each other? Or kill all of us when we're least expecting it with the acumen of "we love each other"?

I thought that Glimmer _wanted _to keep the alliance from dissolving quickly, or maybe my second guess was right, the guess about her attitude being simply a hoax for the audience. Does she really not know that what she's doing has suddenly been turned into a horrible mistake? Because now that they've gotten encouragement to keep the flirting going, now that they've gotten that tiny yet necessary push to continue these mindless actions, they won't stop any time soon, and it'll only be bad for when their 'relationship' starts to fall down a bottomless pit, bringing us Careers with them.

I must throw them off their pedestal of glory and fame, because they don't deserve it; they're being idiots; because they need to be stopped.

"Do you guys want some?" Glimmer shrills at Marvel, Clove, and me. By the calm faces of Marvel and Clove, I can tell that Glimmer probably didn't actually _shrill_, but I'm starting to interpret everything as hostile, uninviting, and just plain irritating to the senses.

This is bad, because I'm starting to get angry, and everything is beginning to aggravate me.

You know how I am with anger.

Although I've learned to keep my emotions shut behind those locked doors of indifference in my heart, the only one that's managed to leak through to this day is anger; it's my hardest one to keep captive, to control. It always manages a way to escape the prison that I've built for it and seep into my life, because of my fucking temperament problems.

Its first getaway has been in the chariot show, when the tributes from filthy District 12 have outshone everyone else with their blindingly ugly costumes, unfairly stealing the attention away from the other tributes because who _wouldn't _look at a burning fire in the dark night?

And the next time I let my anger slip through the doors of its jail was during the interviews, when Peeta started subtly defying me. I remember when he gave those hints in his speech, challenging my dominance, insulting me. I wanted to just punch that smirk clean off his face, because he was in _no _position provoke me with his insolence, defying me like _he _was the one in power.

And now that I think about it—or at least think about it as much my muddled-with-anger mind can—my rage has always been related to Peeta. He's always been the one that has smuggled that anger out of its incarceration, letting it run loose in my bloodstream, rampantly burning my nerves to charred, frayed strings. He's always been the one with the key to unleash my anger from its prison where it is condemned to stay.

Like this afternoon, when he joked around about my mother. That was the only time I literally wanted to rip him to shreds. I was over-exaggerating everything that happened to me, as what I always do when in that dangerous state of irritability, and I was also terrified at that moment because I couldn't tell how much my anger has poisoned me. I couldn't tell to what extent I would've gone to quench my overgrown thirst for vengeance.

I couldn't tell how far he's opened the door to my heart, letting those trapped emotions of rage out.

Why does such a lowly boy have such an effect on me?

Luckily, I calmed myself—despite quite literally being at his throat—_Luckily_, I had quickly shut that door again, forcing my anger back into the place it deserves to be.

But I'm still scared—even at this moment—because I thought I would never get angry again. For years, I've been building a prison with seemingly unyielding walls of apathy and unconcern, walls that I thought surrounded all sides, preventing anything from entering or escaping. I thought I threw the key to my heart and all of its prisoners away for good, never to be found, lost forever.

But it seems like he has a spare.

And now, at this moment, while Clove and Marvel look at those overindulgent pieces of fattening processed sugars with want and indecision in their eyes, I need to make sure that this stops. If I just let Glimmer and Peeta continue with this idiotic flirting, I know it will only disintegrate the Careers' alliances in the future, and I know that eventually it will only grate my nerves even more, abetting my emotions in escaping from their eternal prison, when they've already been out in the open too much.

"No," I try not to hiss, but with the surprised looks I get from everyone, I'm pretty sure the word came out in an unexpected form between a rasp and a bark. "We don't want to waste time doing idiotic things," I say subtly, yet with an unmistakable, bitter pang of condescension.

If blatancy doesn't get through Glimmer's artificially dense head, then maybe some suggestiveness will penetrate that well-hidden third side of hers.

And as for Peeta, I don't think it's his fault that Glimmer is using him—and for what purpose I cannot ascertain yet. He's such a blindly naïve child he can't foretell any of the risks that having a relationship will cripple the Career alliances, only able to blush and laugh nervously at Glimmer's deliberate and calculated flirtations. I'm merely annoyed that those naively azure eyes seem to filter everything he sees, rendering him blind to the _real_ world, dusting off all the dirty bad with those young, chaste eyelashes and washing away whatever wrong he catches sight of in those baby-blue lagoons, so it's all nice and clean for his perfect, little, childish mind to _then _interpret.

I can see that Glimmer has stopped moving, caught off guard by my coldness—that's ironic, because right now my body is inflamed with anger, anger that seems to have possessed me again. She's frozen in her action of handing a handful of sweethearts to Clove, Marvel, and me, a confused expression crossing her face.

I don't expect her to be vicious with the leader, because deep down I know she's smart enough to keep off my ground; I know she has that hidden intelligence to stay off and respect me like she should. Like in the daytime when she was futilely trying to get someone to kill Katniss, commanding Marvel to throw his spear but getting rejected, then asking me, but with a sweeter face and a pout. She had been extremely demanding with her District partner, but she'd reverted back to her former bubbly self when addressing me, the leader, because she knows what I can do. She respects my position of power and wouldn't flagrantly disobey me.

"Well I can tell _you _probably don't want some," she says with a wary and cautious expression, her tone inoffensive and simply suspicious, offering the other two her candy while keeping her bright, distrustful eyes on me, "but give Marvel and…Clove a say," she carefully drawls, visibly choking on Clove's name; I know she has a deep-rooted aversion to my District partner, but to have such disdain and then try to defend the very object of said disdain's dignity? I raise an infuriated eyebrow at the act of pure, subtle defiance to my word.

I scan Clove and Marvel's faces like a predator, patiently waiting for a wrong move, for a flick of the hand towards the candy so I can have an excuse to devour them whole. I will not have more than two of my pack members defying me like this. I need to stop this from escalating into something jeopardizing for my pack, and I will scare them into submission if I have to.

I see Marvel's indecisive expression, at a loss at who to listen to. Should he comply with his District partner's offer, a person who he must understand and know well of that vicious side of? Or should he follow the orders of his _leader_, the one that sustains his very flesh from rotting in this forest? It must be especially hard for him because I know how much he wants to keep good relationships between every stronger Career tribute—damn you, Glimmer, for already starting to dissolve the alliance! I can see he's torn, and in fear that _he'll _even begin to defy me—making that three of my pack members—I quickly shift my gaze to Clove.

Resolute as ever.

I'm beginning to like her even more.

She just stares down at Glimmer's handful of candy, not even letting her arms release from their crossed position to have a chance at it. A part of her reason for not moving an inch to the sweet offer is that shehas as much of a deep-rooted aversion for the other girl as the other girl has for her, but my angry mind likes to think that it's more because I subliminally told her not to.

Even though, I have clear evidence that Clove severely dislikes Glimmer. Many times, when in the Training Center, I've heard my District partner rant on insults at break-neck speed about the "hyperactive, temperamental princess". Then, Glimmer hadn't had enough time to grate my nerves to thin strips; she was just a little annoying, nothing major. But soon, her irritating laughter and incessant enthusiasm had started to grow on me, like an ugly sore that you want to get rid of but know that it'll only cause pain if you agitate it.

I was so annoyed by her in the Training Center that I succumbed to her only plea: let Peeta be a Career.

Worst decision of my life.

I chose him because I thought he was strong, defying me, being big. It almost actually impressed me, even though it angered me. I had thought that if he had the ability to make me angry—which I assumed was impossible after I jailed my emotions away—then he would be someone of use, someone worthy of my attention at least. And when Glimmer kept being persistently annoying by asking me over and over again to make him a Career, I thought, _Why the hell not? He'll die eventually. He might be of _some _use._

And now I understand why she's wanted Peeta to be in the Career circle since the beginning, and now I see that it was all strategic.

She's wanted Peeta so she could do this exact thing!

Yes! I understand, and the idea is ingenious.

She's flirting with Peeta for the sponsors and for the stronger alliance when the Careers start betraying each other, knowing well that the small blond doesn't understand how he's being played. She's doing all of this so she'll get extra gifts to survive, and so she has back-up from him when needed, because she knows how childishly blind he is.

The conniving bitch.

Both of them? Defying me? Well, one is failing miserably because he couldn't make himself look bigger if he was inflated with hot air, but the other is much more intelligent than I initially thought, playing love games with the former. She has Peeta's heart within her hands, doesn't she? Because even though he still doesn't openly voice his dislike of her suffocating, affectionate attention, I know that she has a sort of power over him because he's way too easily influenced. If she manages to make him blush, and if that's enough to get sponsors, then she obviously has this plan of hers started somewhere at least. And if she's affectionate with him for enough time, than I know that feelings will start to grow from the boy, and he'll have an urge to protect her when the time comes by.

He'll get attached sooner or later, and that's bad.

He'll act with his emotions.

_Idiot!_

She's going to taunt around with his feelings, getting countless sponsors to shower her with gifts, and then she's going to throw it away when she doesn't need it—like that girl from the other Games—like his feelings are just stale candy.

Does he not know she will eat his heart out, then garbage it like trash?

This is just like what my trainer taught me, how the games are places to play with other's emotions. I'm grateful he got some sense into me to make me lock those useless emotions away, and then I finally notice.

My anger.

It has started to leak out dramatically, bleed into the Games. Unintentionally, my blood has begun to boil because of the aggravating girl, and my mind has fogged with the heated haze of pure anger that it usually does when I slip into a mood. I have to stop this; I can't let my anger get out of control.

While in the few seconds it took me to reveal the epiphany of Glimmer's motives, and realize my own prisoner was about to fully escape its confinement, Clove has started to speak.

"No thanks," she says dryly, not even looking at Glimmer who has started to beg with her eyes, "Sweetheart," she puts in before taking another bite of her groosling.

She is my favorite—hands down.

"You sure? Marvel?" Glimmer pleads with those dazzling eyes that all children from District 1 seem to be born with. She's starting to get desperate, wanting people to eat her candy, wanting people to grovel at her hands, to be on her side, because she's probably never been on the losing side.

_This is all over a fucking piece of candy, Cato! _The sane part of my mind speaks. But it's a small, weak voice compared to my anger, and I'm sick of running the risk of Glimmer tearing this alliance apart. This 'relationship' that the two morons haphazardly created, it's not going to end well, and what annoys the hell out of me more is that they're just being oblivious. Blind. Idiots. Because they can't tell how badly it's going to backfire.

"Nah, I'm not really in the mood for something sweet," Marvel says carefully, trying to not to get on both of our bad sides.

I see Glimmer bringing her hand of candy back to herself, a confused expression plastered on her face, and I can't decipher if it's real or another veil. But Peeta, he just sits there next to her, genuinely confused out of his wits, baffled at what type of game we're playing.

If Glimmer tries to break my pack apart—whether intentional or not—then she's defying me. And if she's defying me, she's as good as dead.

I'm also aggravated at the boy for sightlessly playing her games with her, unable to understand any type of strategy through those innocently naïve eyes.

I can't tell if I'm blowing this out of proportion. I can't tell whether the anger is wreaking so much havoc in my mind that I can only interpret things negatively, that everything has become unnecessarily hostile and just bad. What if she doesn't have a real strategy with Peeta? What if Glimmer is just casually flirting, just playing her angle like she's supposed to, like when she kissed Marvel? What if she's not planning on anything and _I'm _the one dissolving my pack? What if _I'm _the one that's making the relationships in the Careers unnecessarily abrasive? What if _I'm _the one letting my emotions speak for me because I just don't like people that love?

I can't tell, but my smoldering anger is making it hard to decipher anything anymore. I'm starting to feel nervously agitated, because I know this will spiral out of control if I let my anger take full hold of me. Well isn't that fucking ironic? I'm angry 'cause I'm angry.

"Just throw that useless junk away." And now my anger's starting to speak for me. I want the candy gone so there won't be anything anymore that has a chance of pulling us apart. I want it gone because it's the source of my anger and if it's out of sight, it's out of mind.

"No."

What? I'm caught off guard.

I'm the leader. And I said an order.

Therefore, you **follow **it.

It's as simple as one plus one.

I'm taken by surprise at this blatant defiance, insulting my skill as a leader, as a Career when that's what I've trained to be for my entire fucking life.

But I'm even taken more by surprise by who it is:

Peeta.

He looks at me with fires burning in his eyes, fires different than my blazing red ones, blue-hot fires that somehow hold a dangerous coldness behind them. He's furious, I can tell, furious that I gave him an order, furious that I pushed him around because he apparently doesn't like being pushed around. He's never liked being given orders, and I feel a flare of irritation boil within me at him because he just can't get it into his thick skull that he has to **follow **me. He has to obey if he wants to be a Career, because a pack is dysfunctional without order, because I'm the alpha and he's my lackey.

And now, when he clearly insults my position as his greater, the anger within me starts fighting to get out, it's banging on those locked doors, trying to burn its way through my metal bars, and I think its winning. Now that his insolence is beginning to jeopardize this whole situation even more, I'm beginning to feel infuriated, the walls of my heart's prison melting down, succumbing to my fury.

Did he even want to be a Career in the first place?

"What?" I speak through my teeth, trying to keep the inferno within me from escaping my mouth and charring him to ashes; I can't let my anger control me, because god knows what happens when I do.

"I said no. We want to eat these," he says, Glimmer by his side with a still confused face—now she's the one baffled out of her wits. I wonder again whether she hasn't meant for this to happen, if she was still trying to be ditzy, still trying to keep the mood light, that she had no strategy behind this and I just blew things out of proportion because of my overinflated ire.

Fuck my temperament problems; I probably screwed this whole thing up!

But the anger has escaped long enough to take control of me, like it has ever since I was a kid, and I open my mouth to put Peeta in his place.

"You do _not_—"

I'm cut off by a spontaneous burst of music from the night air, and the anger in the air around me dissipates to confusion.

The Anthem.

We all turn our attention towards the scans of the tributes' faces, grateful that the heaviness of the conversation can have an excuse to float off of us.

I just notice how tense the whole situation was, me being the most riled up at the two love-birds' idiotic flirtations. This is probably my chance to let the anger drip out of me. This is an opportunity to let the toxicity to release, so I can gain my calm and collectedness back. I need to be in charge and letting the rage control me is not going to help.

I start to wonder whether the Anthem playing at that exact moment was intentional. Because usually it plays at an earlier time, around sunset. I can't help but imagine Brutus, my mentor, probably discussing my anger issues with this Cashmere.

Brutus knows much about me, as he does about Clove as well; In District 2, the mentors have long, informational meetings before the train ride with the tributes' trainers, in order to gain the most knowledge of the teenagers they will be mentoring for the games. My trainer had **more **than likely discussed my temperament problems, I'm sure. So it wouldn't be surprising to believe that maybe—since Career District mentors have relations with each other—Cashmere and Brutus had probably talked about how it would affect my temper if Glimmer were to receive those sweethearts, if I wouldn't enjoy the two idiots being rewarded for their stupidity. And I didn't. They had probably talked to Seneca prior to launching the sponsor gift about how I would react, knowing how explosive my anger can be, and asking to postpone the Anthem to use to interrupt my anger if necessary, just in case my temper my would get the best of me. That might have been unconventional, but you would not believe the privileges that Careers receive. I can't tell if it's true or not, maybe my mind is playing tricks on me again. But regardless, now I feel horrible remembering all the people that were expecting better from me.

I had lost my temper as my trainer has specifically told me _not _to do.

They had seen me lose control of my emotions.

They must be so dissappointed, and I feel ashamed, ashamed for disappointing Brutus, and my trainer.

I would normally feel rage at this point, I would normally let another flame lick my insides clean, irritating myself into a mood, but now I just feel like shit, because I thought I had control, and I didn't.

I feel like the blazing fire within me has been drenched out, and now I'm soaking wet in failure and regret, as if my anger has been doused, and all that's left is the wet, filthy ashes of disappointment.

I just feel like going in a hole, because there were people that were expecting me to be a good leader, people that had thought I was strong, and I obviously crushed their expectations into the mud with my senseless rage, demanding Glimmer get rid of the candy, almost about to yell at Peeta for insulting me.

While I look at the dead tribute's face—the only girl that died this morning by Marvel—I'm reminded of how the boy from District 1 seems to have hidden sides as much as his District partner.

I'm still smoldering with the anger that those two idiotic love-birds provoked me into, but my mind needs something to think about, something to escape from the burning sensation of _them_, and it flies to thoughts of how Marvel has some maliciousness as well, killing that girl like it was enjoyable, like he was meant to do it. He did it without a second glance and I start to feel slightly proud, because unlike those imbeciles, he can control his emotions for the Games.

Unlike me, he doesn't lose his temper when someone insults him.

Unlike Peeta, he doesn't succumb so weakly to Glimmer's flirtations.

My eyes flit towards the blond from District 12, and I catch sight of his horrified face.

He looks straight at the girl's picture, absolutely mortified—just out of the blue.

What? Why? He didn't even do anything to that girl…why would he be so terrified of seeing her face?

Weak.

He's so weak that he'd let a girl that he didn't even kill affect him in death. He's letting emotion take control of him like he did when he started hyperventilating, like _I _did when I was about to start yelling at his annoying defiance just a few seconds ago. He's so useless now, not killing anyone, almost cowering in fear when he sees the picture of a dead girl. I almost thought he was starting to get strong when he had the idea of staying here. I almost thought he was finally picking up his own weight around when he stated the proposition himself that might as well be the doom of his own District partner.

But I know now that that was only for me. Now I understand that he gave the idea to stay because he wanted to surprise me, he was so furious with my dominance and he had to show me that he can be a _big boy_. But it only helps my argument that he's a _little kid_, that he's barely picking up any weight around here at all, that as of now he's useless. He can't be strong like that, because if the only reason he has the strength to push aside his fears of his District partner dying is because of his anger towards me, then it only backfires. If the only reason he's strong enough to stop being scared is because he's angry, then it's like binding one emotion down but unleashing the other one. It's a useless effort and the only thing he's helpful to right now is making the relations between my pack abrasive.

I don't know why, but I think I'm starting to direct all of my feelings of worthlessness at him. I'm starting to blame him for this whole ugly mess, because he's just so mindlessly blind, and obliviously idiotic, and painfully _innocent_, that he doesn't understand _anything_. He doesn't understand that Glimmer might be playing him, he doesn't understand how much his presence is jeopardizing my pack, he doesn't understand how much he affects me and that I just want him gone!

I was just laughing at him a few hours ago. I was just _laughing _at his innocence, and now it only agitates me because he's risking something that I've been training my whole life for, he's risking it to be _ruined_—completely and utterly ruined! If he just lets Glimmer take control of him, then the alliance is going to be separated; their relationship will branch off of the tree that is the Career pack, and be so alienated, so distant from everyone else, it will only serve as a reminder that soon we will _all_ be distant from each other, making us more scared about the end than we should be. If he just lets his emotions be played, then it will only serve to dissolve my pack and jeopardize everything that I've been training for—everything that I've risked my _life _for.

He's so mind-numbingly ignorant of the fact that he could be the one to tear this pack apart, that it only makes me angrier at his senseless obliviousness. It's so annoying because he's blind to the reality that he practically has this pack's brittle bonds in between his dainty, childish hands. He's so stupid because he doesn't get he's the one that's been making me angry because of all of this, that he's been the one to let loose my rage from its binding because of how much he's starting to make this whole situation go downhill.

Because he's the sole reason for all these jailbreaks happening in the prison for my emotions. He's the source of all these stupid mistakes that I'm making. He's the one messing me up, making me lose control of my emotions, because he's so senselessly idiotic that he doesn't even understand how much he's changing my plans. And it irritates me so much! He irritates me **so much**!

…Silence…

The Anthem has ended, and my ire has been inflamed once again, but I know this time to not let it out. I know that I can't disappoint anymore of those people—my mentor, my trainer—that have great expectations of me being a strong leader, of winning, so I just allow the fire within me consume my flesh, burning my guts. I can't let this possess me again, and I have to stop letting him invade my prison.

I have to be strong.

I have to be what I've been trained to be.

"Who's on guard duty?" Clove takes the lead, because apparently, I'm too conflicted right now trying to suppress my bubbling anger. Has she noticed this? Is she helping me out? If it was anybody else, I would be insulted, but I trust Clove.

Fuck. No.

"_But I trust Clove."_

This day is getting worse and worse by each insignificant second.

I shouldn't **trust**_ anybody_.

I bottle all the random, petty feelings—anger, trust, regret—I bottle them up, and I cram them all back in a cell, where they have just been sentenced for life.

"_You can go to hell," _I say to the prisoners. Because I'm starting to be too lenient with them, letting them slip away into my body where they just make it difficult to be a leader.

_I have to be strong, _I say to myself; I can't let this happen.

That's it. I'm done with these worthless emotions. From now on, I'm a rock. From this day, I'm a cold, emotionless rock that will not bend to any form of influence whatsoever.

"I guess I'll do it," Marvel interrupts my thoughts. We all nod our heads awkwardly.

Silence for a few seconds.

"Well…," Glimmer speaks, "I'm going to sleep."

And one by one, after we douse our fire, we shuffle back to our sleeping bags, except Marvel who positions himself sitting against the tree.

On the way to my bag, I catch sight of Glimmer stuffing her backpack with the sponsor gift, its chrome surface shining in the dim light of the dwindled fire.

I don't know even know_ what_ to think of her anymore as I slip into my sleeping bag.

This fucking sucks.

Sometimes, I wish I didn't have a heart, because then I wouldn't have to have emotions.

My senseless anger blew every single thing way out of proportion.

Who knew if Glimmer was planning on taking advantage of Peeta?

Who knew if their measly flirting was even jeopardizing the pack?

Who _fucking_ knew?

Not _me_.

My anger had raged through my body, possessing everything, taking so much control as to make me say and do all those things. _I'm _probably the only one dissolving this pack already—and it's only the second day. I let my rage fill me because I was aggravated, and it did **wonders**.

But why?

Why was I even so angry in the first place that they were flirting? Why did I loosen the shackles to my anger from the sight of them getting some stupid candy?

When I saw them, flirting and blushing, laughing and giggling, basically just being _happy_, the rage within me seemed to just escape. When I saw them having a casual, happy-go-lucky time, I wanted nothing but to rain on their parade. I wanted to make them fall off their pyramid of joy, not because I thought they were risking my pack's alliance into dissolving—because that was my anger thinking for me, possessing me into interpreting everything as negative—but because I was infuriated they had the gall to let out _those _types of emotions when **you** **are not supposed to do that**. My anger had been unleashed like it hasn't been in the past few years because I was furious that they're stupidity was starting to transform into aimless love, and I _knew _that that's such an idiotic mistake that I couldn't control myself.

I wasn't angry because I thought they were going to be the demise of the pack; that's what my anger made me think.

I was angry—no, _furious_—because they had the audacity to flaunt emotion like a bunch of morons, as if they were going to live after this.

Because I don't like emotion, and they don't have the right to show it in here.

I toss and turn in my sleeping bag, trying to get the sleep I've been missing for the past night.

_Stupid, useless emotions._

All these new and almost alien feelings have used and spent my mind, violated my body like the criminals they are, and when I've finally captured them again and bound them back in their place, the aftermath feeling is horrible, like my body is done—just. Done with all of this tiring emotion.

If I had just kept the cage to my emotions closed, this wouldn't have happened, none of my anger would've escaped and none of this awkward tension would have risen between my pack. If I had just kept Peeta from prying those doors open, then I wouldn't have such an overwrought mind right now. If I had just been what I was supposed to be—what I was trained to be—then he wouldn't have affected me this way.

And now, along with anger, I feel regret and I'm starting to trust.

I let my anger control me for a small moment, and along with it, came out regret—regret because my trainer must be so disappointed in me. This is exactly what he was talking about, and I did exactly what he told me not to. It feels like the burden of all those eyes at District 2 has suddenly become heavier with all the disappointment, like the sky has suddenly become _more _massive atop my shoulders, and it's an even greater burden now to try to hold all those expectations up. He was expecting me to be the best, to be at the top, and I've hit rock-bottom because of my stupid actions.

And because of this low feeling, my mind needs someone to hold on to, someone to trust. And it's found Clove because she's the best one out of all of us. She's serious about this whole thing. _She's _the unwavering one, not caring about Glimmer's flirting, not moving an inch when Glimmer offered her some of her gift. She's a true Career, and she's the one that helps out the most, picking up her own weight and sometimes the weight of others, like me. And I feel like such shit that I want to fall back on someone, so I've chosen her, because sometimes I think she might even be stronger than I am.

I've only let these few, fucking stupid emotions out, and they've wreaked so much havoc already. I shouldn't feel anger because it obstructs my rational, strategic mind from thinking. I shouldn't feel regret because it degrades my feeling of worth and that hinders me from using my full powers. I shouldn't feel trust because more than _anything _in the world that is the worst thing to do—and _especially _in the Arena.

So why has the jail in my heart just weakened? Why am I suddenly feeling all this burdensome, tiring emotion?

And it comes to me.

Peeta.

For some reason, that boy's always been the one related to my ire being released, he's always been the one correlated to my emotion of anger letting loose, melting the bars to its cell so the next time it's even _easier_ to escape. He's been the first one to start the jailbreak that left my prison weak, the escape that left the hinges on those locked doors frail, easier to be broken the next time. He's the one that's made me this way.

From the beginning, he's made me want to punch him. And I know now that I was a moron to ever think he was strong, to ever think that he was useful to me.

_Stupid, worthless boy._

He's done nothing at this point that's made me proud of choosing him in, nothing at all that's made me happy he's a Career.

I just wish he'd die.

I almost feel angry, but I catch myself.

Not anymore.

Now, there will not be anymore emotions leaking out. No more of my feelings bleeding into the Games. Because it's happened once too many, and look at what it's done. I've sealed the door to my heart shut—air-tight—and there will be no more escapes. No more of anything that makes me weak like this, that makes me such an easily influenced person. I have to stop this from happening ever again if I want to win, so I've concluded one thing.

I'm done with emotion.

Forever.

* * *

**THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR REVIEWING!**


	11. Control

Chapter Eleven

* * *

The Lion III

Chaos.

That's the first thing I see when I open my eyes to the sheer insanity unfolding before me.

Shrieks split the forest air, making my ears pound in pain. Everyone is frantic, running wildly and swatting the air, screaming their lungs out for something I don't notice yet because my eyesight is distorted and bleary. Clove is far off, violently shaking her head and punching the space around her. Glimmer is shamelessly screeching my ears off, lunging into the bushes near the edge of the glade. Peeta is yelling his throat dry, rapidly escaping from his sleeping bag. All of them have this unusual, hazy cloud of darkness swarming them.

What the fuck is going on?

Chaos is erupting and I have no idea what for. What the fuck happened? What are those clouds they're erratically trying to avoid?

And then I feel a sharp sting on my back.

In an instant, searing pain starts to burn a mark into my skin, as if I've been branded with a hot iron.

I quickly get out of my bag, still disoriented, unable to make out what's attacking me.

Another sting, on my arm.

More intense pain, this time shooting up my forearm as if it's injecting into my bone.

I spot a wasp circling me—no, a thousand, all at once—they're all swarming me, trapping me within a deadly cloud of barbs and wings.

I catch sight of Katniss stumbling off into the woods, escaping.

"Fuck!" Another punctures my neck, right in my carotid artery. Furiously pushing my way through the deadly cloud of insects, I stagger and stumble towards the refuge of trees. But the sting has poisoned my blood directly, straight into the blood vessel that leads to my brain, and now everything is rapidly becoming hazy.

I'm starting to lose balance while I try to run, inevitably falling on my unstable feet a few meters from my original location. The pain in my back, arm, and neck is rapidly coursing through my bloodstream, scorching my veins; this is bad, it's in my blood and I can't even think of what might happen next because my brain is getting clotted with the poison fast and the screams of the other Careers are dying down to muffled shrieks.

Another sting. My leg. More unbearable, agonizing pain.

I'm burning inside; my temperature is increasing too fast and I'm starting to sweat. My hands are violently shaking and I can't control them. The venom is insanely potent; it's wreaking havoc on my body in a matter of seconds! As I try to get my uncoordinated self up, my legs shake, too, and I'm starting to drift off of consciousness. I attempt to make a last-ditch break for it, try to run with all my might out of the heap of wasps I'm surrounded in.

No! Not wasps!

I notice the engrossed abdomens as I clumsily stagger, the green toxin seeping from their barbs, the uncanny shade of golden. _These are the Games, idiot!_

Tracker jackers!

And then I trip on something, falling to the hard ground.

"Fuck!" The fall made me hit my arm on a rock, and now the sting is extremely agitated, a new flare of pain racing up to my shoulder, as if my skin is ripping apart from the friction.

I try one last time to get up, but my brain is losing control of everything, and I'm starting to slip off into darkness. My eyesight is dramatically losing focus, and all I see are the smeared shapes and colors of the bushes and the deadly insects flying around me. My coordination is utterly gone, and I can't even control my hands long enough to bring myself off the forest floor. The screams are barely audible anymore—the only thing left being the horrifying, incessant buzzing of the tracker jackers—and I can't tell if it's me losing my hearing, or if everyone has left me.

I'm starting to lose all control of myself, but I move my fogged head enough to catch sight of what I tripped on.

Marvel, moaning in pain.

I don't even have enough time to think of my death before I lose consciousness.

* * *

_Rolling hills and a clear, blue sky. Everything outside is clear, clean, and refreshing, as I let the air bursting through the window of the train throw my hair around. I can see the small country houses at the outskirts of the city. The suburbs are always so clean and nice, but the downtown's so cramped, I've always thought. The city's tall skyscrapers scrape nothing but the dark fog that hangs over the bustling area like a dreary, suffocating curtain. That was where the reapings were held, where I volunteered._

_And now I'm coming back._

_Thankfully to the suburbs because that's where I live._

_The train comes to a slow, relaxed stop and I eagerly get up to enter the small station. Only a few people are here, mostly Peacekeepers deploying to other Districts. But I don't give a damn because I'm anxiously speed-walking outside into the clean, fresh air, the slight mountain breeze instantly letting my shoulders slump down from their tensed position. _

_I take a moment to appreciate the calm peace, and then get started on my way._

_The suburbs aren't very crowded, what with the full business—including the Academy—being in the city, so I don't meet many people along the way. But whoever I do meet congratulates me on my victory, and I nod and thank them modestly before hurriedly walking to my destination._

_I make a complete stop at the sight of the house. Two-story, white, plain, nothing major. But it makes me halt to look at it as if it was a million-dollar mansion. It's a simple house, but it's so much more to me._

_It's home. _

_I don't even knock as I open the unlocked door, too anxious to remember, and I nervously walk through the entrance to the kitchen._

_My heart skips a beat in joy at the sight._

_My grandfather._

_My twin, little brothers._

_All waiting at the table and now suddenly standing up and scurrying towards me before I could even blink._

"_Cato, you're back," my grandfather says in his weathered, mellow voice, soothing my anxious nerves. He pulls me into an unexpected, warm hug and I do something I haven't done in months._

_I close my eyes and smile._

_His worn hands glide on my back, smoothing out my tensed muscles, and I relax into his tender hold. Everything about him—from his roughened face, to his weathered, calloused skin, to his strong-looking appearance—signifies he's experienced many things, and he's endured through so much; he's been in the war with District 13 as a Peacekeeper, I remember. He's gone through so many trials and he's been ground down by so many arduous burdens. But he still has the heart of someone with much more energy left to spare, like everything's that happened to his body hasn't left a scratch on his soul, and it's still as youthful and filled with life as a young man with a blazing ambition. He's battled through so much that it astounds me whenever I'm close enough to feel his essence radiating with such a purposeful vitality._

_I pull back to get a look at his rugged face. It has wrinkles and scars but I can feel the life emanating from it, like he has so much more energy left in him. He's even taller than I, with a large frame and a firm grip. His dark hair is course and rough, but still as full of rich color as his soul always seems to be. His rugged arms direct me off of the warm embrace, and his tender, brown eyes take a look at his oldest grandson. He grunts in kind approval of me, and my soft smile grows into a grin. He warmly laughs with a voice that's eternal, as if it's never grown old and weak, as if it never will. It's not hard to see why I always used to describe him as a person larger than life._

_He was my role model when I was little._

"_Big Bro's finally back!" My brothers cheer joyfully in unison, scampering around the table to get a hold of me, too. They're only seven but they have a fierce grip on my legs, grinning with such genuine joy that there older brother's back. They're adorable._

_I've always loved them so much. After they were born, I was shocked by the fact they looked so alike that I couldn't tell them apart when they came from the hospital. They both have the same sunshine-blond hair, short and lively—just like them, I always think. They both have the same adorable dimples specking the sides of their small mouths whenever they give me those lovable smiles, laughing with such genuine joy it's infectious. They both have the same bright hazel eyes brimming with such young innocence and accentuated with playful green flecks._

_They're so alike in appearance, but I've learned to love them individually. _

_They look up at me with those bright, youthful orbs. "Don't ever go again!" they scold me while pouting. "We missed you."_

_Too adorable. _

_I've always been with them whenever I could—playing games, having fun, laughing. Training was a big part of my life, but when I found the time, I would sit with them and do a board game, or go outside play or something. I would spend time with them because I was their "Big Bro" and they look up to me. We've grown a close bond, and I've always adored them, as they've always loved me._

"_I won't," I promise to them._

_My grandfather laughs jovially, placing a strong hand on my shoulder. "Good," he speaks with his hearty tone, "We've all missed you."_

"_Including me," I hear a beautiful voice say._

_Instantly remembering whose it is, I swivel my head to the sight of her._

_Beautiful, honey-blonde hair that naturally falls straight below her shoulders, curling ever-so-slightly in soft wisps. Beautiful, slender figure that she carries so_ _gracefully, a fair hand to her delicate hip. Beautiful, hazel eyes that the twins have gotten from her, glassy with tears that shine in her irises._

"_Mom…," is the only thing I can muster at the sight of her. _

_My body moves on its own, yearning for her warmth._

_Before I know it, I'm hugging her tenderly, enveloping her small figure with my large arms, resting my cheek at the top of her beautiful hair. Everything about her makes me just want to melt in her arms, makes me just want her to hold me like she did before I left._

"_Oh, Cato…" she says softly, wiping her small, floury hands on her apron before resting them gingerly on my back. "You're finally here."_

_I just hug her tighter, inhaling the soothing aroma of her baking. She's always been a wonderfully skilled cook, making the best gourmet foods I've ever tasted. She's always baking something, whether it's the most delectable pies, or the warmest pastries. Her amazing cooking could rival the luxuriousness of the Capitol's. I remember the times she used to say I always got the lion's share of her delicious confections._

_Before my brothers were born, I've been the only child, thus the one with most attention. I've been used to getting stuff—a lot of it. And I love her desserts so much that I would always eat as much of her cakes, pastries, ice-creams—you name it—as I could. I used to roar like a large lion, the cake frosting smearing my lips, giving the appearance of a dirtied mane. But she always called me just an overgrown cat, adorable nonetheless with my childish fantasies. _

"_Yeah, Mom…" I try to say through the tears threatening to escape. She makes me want to break all those stupid barriers that I've built over the years for the Games. She makes me want to be that young kid that she's always treated with such kind unselfishness. She makes me want to allow all those prisoners of emotion out and let my heart beat free without the extra weight. _

_She makes me want to be myself._

_And I can't help it when I say, "I'm here."_

_She pulls me out of the warm embrace and I look into her breathtaking eyes, the eyes that have always been watching over me grow. She places her gentle hands on my cheeks, hands that I bet have been working on some delectable confection. Her warm, compassionate touch…I can't believe how long it's been without it._

"_We've all missed you too much." A shining smile emerges on her lips. "It's unhealthy, really," she warmly laughs through the tears brimming in her eyes, and it makes me laugh with her, just because she's happy._

_Everything's perfect._

_I'm with my family, the only people I love and admire. I'm back home, the only place I feel like I can be who I really am without the need to lock up my emotions. I feel like I could never be anywhere else and feel just as happy. _

_And what's better is my father's not here._

_I'm glad he decided not to come to meet his oldest son come back._

_I've never loved him—not even liked. He's a drunk, abusive bastard that should never have married my mother. He's hurt me, Mom, my brothers—he's even hurt himself trying to commit suicide once. I've never enjoyed his snide comments on how we, his sons, are worthless mistakes he never should have decided on having, when he himself was a horrible father, a failure. He's never appreciated any one of us, and I don't appreciate him. I'm happy he's not here to ruin this moment, because he just makes everything worse with his morbid attitude and his harsh, insulting tone._

"_Now you will stay here, am I clear, Cato?" Mom says with mock scorn, and I just grin and nod compliantly. "No more going away," she laughs along with me. I don't feel this moment could be any better._

"_Okay, Mom," I say._

"_That's right," she beams and uses her hands to bring my forehead down to her lips. Instantly, I'm reminded of all my memories with her, memories of warm afternoons outside in the grass. Memories of rainy days when we used to play imaginative games inside. Memories of her home-baked, extraordinary cooking and the times we used to eat it together. Memories of when she used to kiss me on my forehead and tell me how much I mean to her._

"_So, how was it?" she asks, walking away from me to the oven a few meters away, gloving her hands and opening the appliance with a loud creak. The natural aroma of some sweet dessert meets my nose, and my mouth waters already to sink my teeth into her delicious cooking._

"_The train ride?" I ask, the smile still gracing my face._

"_No no no," she shakes her head, furrowing her eyebrows. She doesn't look as beautiful when she does that. _

"_Killing all those people. How was it?" She brings the tray from the oven and I get a look at what it is._

_It's a cake. A perfect, white cake._

"_W-what?" I shake my head in bewilderment, my perplexed eyes narrowed and a confused smile gracing her lips. I didn't hear quite well what she said._

"_It must have been hard, wasn't it?" she sympathetically leans her head to her side, nodding in empathy. "It's okay. None of that anymore," she says while putting the cake on a counter beside the oven and bringing out a knife to cut it._

_Why would she bring up the Games? _

"_It's okay, Big Bro," one of my brother says, smiling, "You don't ever have to do all that killing anymore." He shakes his head._

"_No, son," my grandfather contributes, arms resting on the table, "you promise not to kill anymore, right?"_

"_Yeah, of-of course…," I look at them, then my mother, who's cutting slices of the cake with her knife._

"_Mom?" I say, confused about what is going on—why is she talking about killing? Why is my family acting strange about the Games all of a sudden? Why would they think I would kill anymore? _

_Then suddenly, I hear a cannon booming off in the distance, as if a thousand miles away. _

_Then a heavy thump from behind me. I rapidly turn my head, along with my mother and brothers at the sight._

_My grandfather._

_Lying dead on the floor beside his chair, a pool of blood spilling from his head._

_My eyes widen, and I hear my mother gasp. _

_His eyelids are still open, and I see all that life, all that vitality drip out of him just as fast as his dark blood. Too quickly, I see him lose all that energy that I once thought made him immortal rapidly deplete from his body, and his skin turns a sickly grayish shade._

"_Grandpa!" my brothers yell, running to his side with stunned expressions._

_What has just happened? Had I just heard a cannon?_

_I'm paralyzed, the blood that was pumping through me so warmly a while ago suddenly freezing within my veins. _

"_Cato…" my mother softly says, and I quickly turn my head to view her shocked expression. She's looking at my face with tears and fright in her eyes, as if she's scared of me. Her delicate hand is to her mouth in complete shock, but all the shock is directed towards me. "Cato, I thought you were done with killing…"_

_What? Killing? Does she think—_

"_Mom, I didn't—"_

"_Cato!" she screams at me, boring into my soul with those frightened eyes, eyes overflowing with tears threatening to fall. "You need to stop doing this! Don't let the Games bleed into your life!" she screeches._

_How in the world does she think I did this? Grandfather is dead, and I was meters away from him, looking at _her_! I couldn't have done it! _

_Grandfather is dead. I heard his cannon and now he's officially…dead._

"_Mom, how could I have—"_

_Two more cannons and I quickly turn again, dreading the worst._

_Both of my brothers._

_Piled on each other—slits at their throats._

"_CATO!" my mother shrieks, tears raining her cheeks. "How could you!" She points at me with her knife, framing me for all of this when I am just as shocked as her. "I told you, you have to stop playing this Game! You promised!"_

_No. _

_No no no._

_No this can't be happening—it's all too fast—no I didn't kill them—no I didn't do any of this._

_She darts her eyes to her knife._

_It suddenly has blood dripping from it._

_Then she looks back at me with crippling comprehension. "You! You did it with this knife! Cato, I thought that you could control yourself." Her voice sounds broken, as if everything that was hers has been stolen from her. _

_But that's not fair; everything that's been mine has been stolen from _me_!_

_I try to step to her, shaking my head, my eyes stinging with tears that burn my corneas. "Mom, you have to believe me I didn—"_

"_Stay back!" she screeches at me, and my heart breaks. She's pushed herself back to the counter, desperately trying to clutch the flat surface as if she's been cornered by her greatest fear, as if she truly believes I'm going to kill her. "Why would I ever believe a blood-loving __**monster like you**__?"_

_I never felt this type of pain before, as if my heart is cracking into an infinite amount of pieces—beyond imaginable repair. The first person I've ever trusted to show my emotions with, the first person ever to love me, the first person ever to make me feel happy, now scared out of her sanity that _I _was the one to kill my family, breaking her trust for me in an instant?_

_Why would she do this to me?_

"_Mom…"_

_In her attempt at trying to get a hold of something with her hand, she clangs on the cake tray, and I see it fall to the ground with a __**boom**__. _

_A deafening._

_**Earth-shattering**__._

_Boom._

_And I see her body fall dead in front of me._

"_Mom!" I start to rush at her, before I suddenly stop, noticing what's in my hand._

_Her knife._

"_No…" I cautiously step back from her bleeding body lying dead on the kitchen floor, the bits of her cake mixing with her blood. The knife drops from my hand, as if it has burned me._

_I didn't do this._

_My heart has shattered, and now the cracked pieces are piercing the inside of my chest. I can't seem to breathe, trying to pull in air into my lungs but failing, and I feel the tears burn my cheeks as they lifelessly roll down my face._

_Why is this happening?_

_I didn't do anything to deserve this! I didn't kill my family!_

"_But the knife is in your hand," an ugly, bitter voice rings inside me head, and I violently look all ways to identify its origin._

_I catch sight of the open doorway, where a figure menacingly stands._

_I descry through my tears, trying to see who the frightening man is. His face is filthy and unkempt, caked with horrifying blood and dripping with sweat. His clothes are ripped and shredded, and he's panting out clouds of putrid breaths. He's far from me, but I can see the dagger clenched in his hand, soaked in a dark liquid. I move my gaze up to his bulging eyeballs, gorged with deadly malice._

"_Dad…?" I ask, shocked out of my wits, literally paralyzed from head to toe. I can't tear my eyes from his savage glare no matter how much I force myself to; I'm trapped—hopelessly trapped by this inexplicable evil. _

"_Don't worry, Cato," he begins to walk towards me. His voice doesn't seem to be coming from his mouth; it's as if it's inside my own head, horribly resonating with a deafening, demonic malevolence. I command every cell in my body to __**do something**__, but nothing happens. I try to force my legs but it's as if there made of stone, as if they're not my flesh anymore._

"_What would make you stop crying?" His voice still thunders darkly within my skull, increasing in volume as he nears with murderous intentions. I begin to smell the rancid blood from his mouth, rotting the air around us, and I can see the sickening smile crossing his filthy lips. _

_I try to open my mouth but still nothing__happens, as if it's locked by the sheer force of his malicious will. I try to escape but it's as if I have no power, as if everything is happening by its own accord and I'm just a vulnerable, __**defenseless **__thing._

_It's as if I have no __control__ over anything anymore—and I'm horrified of what could happen. _

"_Don't cry. Daddy's here."_

_I'm so utterly terrified for my life I just want to die already, before he makes it as painful as possible. What will he do to me? _

_I can see the blood vessels in his eyes, raging and pulsing with malice, as he nears my powerless body. I can feel his insatiable lust for carnage radiating dangerously out towards me while he gets closer and __**closer**__._

_I want him to stop, but I have no __control__! I'm so helpless and now I'm going to—_

"_Let's play a Game."_

* * *

"Stop moving so much!"

I suddenly jerk awake.

My eyes are widened to the brink, and I'm sweating and panting like a maniac, absolutely disoriented and unaware of my location.

My chest falls and rises dramatically as I hurriedly take in my surroundings: I'm on a sleeping bag, I'm drenching my shirt with my sweat, I'm in a tent, and there's Peeta to my side, holding a damp cloth, an irritated expression crossing his face.

The Arena.

I didn't win. I didn't go home. I didn't die.

"What the fuck happened?" I ask Peeta, still breathing very heavily and my temperature burning, my eyes unable to focus on anything clearly, although I think I see a few, swollen stings on him.

"Tracker jackers—that's what happened," he says, sinking the cloth in a bucket of water, and then bringing it to my forehead, his eyebrows knit together.

I snap the soaked cloth out of his grasp, grabbing it myself; I don't need him babying me.

"I can move my arms, you know," I say a little too harshly, but I'm just confused and irritable, memories of my dream replaying in my mind.

"Fine," he says, raising his hands up in a gesture of defeat. "Then I guess you can replace your own bandages, apply your own cream, and inject yourself with your medicine. Because you're such a big boy now." He looks at me with those blue eyes, light eyebrows raised.

I don't have the patience for his irritating words; my skin is burning, and I don't even know what has happened to the Careers without me leading. I'm a leader and I should know what has occurred without my order. There's no time to deign him attention, and I can't even think straight with this stuffy, overheated tent.

Burning and sweating, I quickly try to take my suffocating shirt off.

Instantly, sharp pain shoots up my spine and coerces a yelp from me, rendering me motionless with my shirt halfway up my body, my eyesight obstructed. I finally notice that the pain is actually all over my body, throbbing with intense power and strongest at the massive, fluid-dripping stings on my arm, leg, back, and neck. I fall back on my sleeping bag, defeated, unable to grit through the pain because I've been drastically weakened, and unable to see anything because my own shirt has become like a prison.

How have I become such a weakling that I can't even sit up!

Then, Peeta helps me out of my predicament, forcing the clothing off of my sweaty body.

God this is so fucking annoying; I need help from a stupid child because I can't handle some pain.

But at least I can finally breathe straight, my body not having to be choked by that cumbersome cocoon. Now I can at least feel some cool air on my skin, which is slick and extremely uncomfortable with all the sweat.

I look to my side at him. "How long have I been out?" I ask, a hand on my overheated forehead, rubbing my sweaty and disheveled hair back off of it. I'm not going to say thanks anytime soon; he's still pretty useless.

But how long _have _I been out? If it's been long then I truly wonder what has happened; I have to know everything that happens around here because I'm the leader, because I need to be in control.

He doesn't meet my eyes, suddenly fixated on the ugly, pus-engorged sting on my back, his face flushed a red—probably from all this heat. "A day," he stutters.

"A day!" I yell at him, making him flinch.

Before even waiting to hear a confirmation to my furiousness, I storm out of the tent to find someone more respect-deserving, ignoring the agitating pain injecting itself into my cells. The feeling in my right arm, back, leg, and neck isn't nearly enough to make me stop, because I must have missed so much that happened, and I'm supposed to be the one in charge! I'm the alpha and I've been on hiatus for _way _too long. I'm the one that makes this place run and I've been remising on my ass, dreaming like I have no responsibility, like I have no obligation, like I have no control.

I quickly exit the tent—hurriedly flipping open the flap at the entrance and almost crashing into the scrawny District 3 kid aimlessly idling—and am met to the sight of late sunset. The faint, blue light of the Arena barely shows me Clove's figure as she turns from her spot by the fire to see me.

"You're awake," she says, the blaze casting a warm glow on her surprised face.

"Yeah, tell me everything that's happened," I rush to get answers, starting to her spot but then noticing the lack of something crucial.

Annoying chatter.

Bubbly attitude.

Irritating flirtations.

All gone.

"Where's Glimmer?" I ask, confused, stopping meters from Clove. And then I notice the absence of the other District 1 tribute. "And Marvel?" I knit my eyebrows in annoyance because I'm the one that's supposed to know this stuff; I hate dependence.

Clove opens her mouth to answer, but not knowing what to say, doesn't emit any words.

Why is she hesitant? What happened when I was out?

Her face looks concerned and conflicted, unable to form words, but she finally spits out, "Glimmer—"

And she's cut off by the _stupid _Anthem.

I grunt in agitation at the ugly-sounding music, forcing my eyes up to see if anyone died at all—hopefully that _Katniss _girl. Has she been the one to throw that tracker jacker hive down on us? I will make her **pay**.

But my festering thoughts are abruptly interrupted when I see whose face it is on the screen, and my blood runs cold.

I didn't expect this.

I didn't know this would happen so soon in the Games; I thought I had more time to think about the inevitable. I didn't know something like this would happen so early, and now I'm forced to face fate. What I see on that screen rips my world apart, tearing a giant fissure into the ground I was once so steady on. And now I'm forced to look down at it, forced to stare at what might be my own dark demise. What I see on that screen catches me off guard, almost making me trip into that bottomless hole, because I didn't expect something to happen this soon, and now that it has, I'm scared of what _else _might happen without my control. I'm scared that I might not see what's coming to me.

Because Marvel didn't.

* * *

I stare at the ceiling of the sultry tent, trying to gain some type of bearing on the ground I'm laying on, trying to close that deep gash in my world with my bare hands. It's utterly silent, but the thoughts in my head haunt my mind to the point that I can't even think anymore with the all the mental noise.

I've realized again that pretty soon we won't be sitting around the campfire, eating candy anymore. We'll be at each other's throats. And I don't think I'm ready.

I don't like this feeling. It makes me uneasy, disconcerted about the fact that something as unexpected as this has happened—and might _again _happen. It makes me nervous about who else might die, and who will be the first to snap.

It makes me scared slightly, because I wasn't ready.

I shake my head violently; I need to get in control.

I need to stop being nervous and gain back my pack. I need to be strong.

But this venom, this poison from the tacker jackers that seems to have leaked its toxicity into every living cell in my body is weakening me. I feel woozy from just standing up and the stings on my body still burn harshly against the cool cream that Clove found in the supply heap. I'm disoriented in every facility imaginable, unable to keep anything down in my body without the strange and uneasy feeling of it about to come up, unable to gain control of my world again. And it's done more to me than make my body dysfunctional.

It's weakened my mind.

Everything is starting to hit me stronger than it did before. The reality of the Games have fell on me like a ton of hard, stony bricks, when it used to feel like only a pillow of feathers. Because my mind was made of steel, it was impenetrable because I made it that way, thinking of only strategy. I was purely trying to be a leader.

But now, I feel like a survivor. I feel like I'm trapped. I feel like I'm not in control of everything anymore.

Because now that one member's down, more will inevitably have to go, and I will have to be on my toes to see if they're planning anything, _while _trying to hold the weight of the Careers on my back. It feels like that burden that's been on my shoulders—just like Atlas's—is suddenly heavier, and it's worse because instead of just standing in one spot, now I feel like I'm having to walk on a tightrope. Across a moat filled with bloodthirsty creatures.

Everything's harder now because that poison's done something to my once steely mind, it's made it weak.

Why can't I gain back the control I had over myself!

I hear the tent entrance swiftly flip open and steady footsteps on the ground.

I prop myself up on my elbows and turn my head to see who it is, although the sharp, burning pain makes that almost impossible.

It's Glimmer, holding backpacks and sleeping bags in her arms, an unnaturally serious expression crossing her face.

She just looks at me with cold, austere eyes, eyes that seem to almost push me down with their sheer, unrelenting power, standing resolutely at the entrance to the tent, her locked arms overflowing with random supplies—where are they from? And more importantly, why is she staring me down, bereft of that bubbly attitude? It's more deterring that she's sending off dangerous vibes of dislike towards me than it is her carrying a few items, because her personality is everything about her.

And then I understand why: There are no cameras in the tent; she can be herself.

She sighs obnoxiously and walks off to her left, dropping the content of her arms on the ground and kneeling to sort through them, her most likely scowling face hidden from my view, only the slight sway of her tresses visible from my position.

It is interesting, this third side of her, but why is it she's suddenly becoming so cold, as if _I _personally offended her? I can see it in her body language, and I can feel it in the air radiating from her, this heavy, oppressive aura of pure dissatisfaction, as if I have done something wrong. Why does she hate me all of a sudden?

"Where were you," I ask, genuinely wondering where she was, but not committing an effort to keep the harshness of my tone suppressed; I'm getting annoyed she's being this distasteful.

"At a tea party," she sarcastically says, her voice bitter, only egging on my annoyance. I couldn't see her face but I could practically _hear _her roll her eyes in disgust. I'm starting to get irritated at her "new" attitude; she used to respect my position as her greater and now she's being this distasteful towards me? What's her problem?  
She sifts through the items in a backpack, bringing out a silver canister and placing it indifferently on the ground next to her with a soft thud.

The sponsor gift—she's been back to that place to get our supplies.

And now that I think of it, how did I get here?

I had lost consciousness near Marvel, after the stings had poisoned my bloodstream. How did I regain it in the tent? Was I so disoriented I forgot the trip back to camp? Or—

I'm cut off by another loud, obnoxious sigh from Glimmer shaking her head. "Why did he choose you?" she says to practically herself, but I know she wanted me to hear it.

"Who?" I ask, confused. I'm sick of these sighs and this rude behavior; it's getting really irritating. I cock an eyebrow. "And what's stuck up _your _ass, princess?"

She snaps her head to me, her eyebrows furrowed and her eyes harsh, looking me over like I'm some annoying idiot.

What the fuck is with her?

"You really don't know, do you?" she says, her tone offensive. I'm starting to get really angry at her becau—

No.

_None of that anymore_, I say to myself.

She shakes her head superciliously, and I force my boiling anger down, because I'm not dealing with debilitating emotion for any longer. "Do you even remember what happened?" she asks, her hands lain flat on her thighs.

_Well what do you think? _I try to speak telepathically to her. She **knows **I don't remember anything, and she's only asking me because she wants to ask the questions for once, she wants to be the bigger, she wants to be in control.

"No," I say coldly to her, trying to force her distasteful attitude back into its hole with my eyes, silently warning her not to act this way.

She stands up, **sighing**, and locks her arms together, as if _I'm _the one annoying the other. "Both you and Marvel were unconscious," she states the obvious.

"Yeah, I get that. What I'm trying to ask you is—"

"It was a choice between you or him."

I stop dead in my words, almost tripping on my own tongue.

_They had to choose one of us to save. _We were both lying sprawled on the ground over each other, practically dead and with swarms of tracker jackers surrounding us. They probably had their own stings and were being attacked as well. So to stop running for your life when you're in clear danger, and pick between two people to save?

I was nothing short of oppressive to them last night, demanding they stop eating candy because of my immature, childish anger. I was most likely grating their nerves into pieces with my infantile rage, just because I was the one not allowed emotion.

And Marvel—he was the one trying to have good relations with the stronger Careers. He was the one that set aside his differences to respect the others bigger than him, not mouthing off when I ordered him around, following Glimmer like she was his better, distancing himself from Clove as to not offend her. He was the more appealing one, the one that people probably liked more.

I was just an overbearing dictator that they could easily have replaced with Clove.

_He _was the true sweetheart.

So why was I chosen to live?

And then by wh-

"Peeta chose you."

My ears could not process that correctly.

"Huh?"

She shakes her head, and rolls her eyes—eyes that are now slightly glassy. But I don't notice them because I'm too caught up in my own world—yeah the one that I said was ripped apart. Well now I think I'm experiencing a category 6 earthquake.

The tent splits open at the entrance and we swiftly veer our heads to see who it is.

Speaking of the devil—_or more like angel, _my mind starts to speak without consent.

"Hey, Peeta!" Glimmer cheers, her face suddenly shining brighter than a thousand stars. He gives a tired "hi" and fishes a sleeping bag out of the mess she created. "Okay well Clove and I are doing watch duty," she says before practically scampering her way out of the tent, leaving me to sit with my…savior?

I'm still in my propped-up position, eyes now slightly wide and trained solely on the boy a few meters from me. He's searching through the pile of supplies Glimmer left, gaining grasp of a sleeping bag, an indifferent expression crossing his face.

I'm still slightly petrified from Glimmer's words, unable to move any part of my body anymore because I'm so shell-shocked.

It was a choice between Marvel, and me. He was getting madly stung by hordes of tracker jackers, but for some reason he stopped to look at our unconscious bodies?

It was a life-or-death situation—run away and live, or save someone (both of which you don't like) and more than likely die. And for some reason he stopped in the midst of getting stung, to save one of us.

Ever since the beginning in the Training Center, I've been nothing but overbearing and contemptuous. Right from the start, I've done nothing to make him enjoy my presence, whether commanding him around like he's a slave, or asserting myself like an insolent bastard, I was only an asshole to him. Ever since the start, I've been unappealing, even there when I lied sprawled on the ground, ugly, unattractive stings riddling my body.

And even though Marvel was insulting to him, too, he was never as bad as me. He only teased and jibed, like a playground bully, while as _I'm _the one to go a step further and hit below the belt whenever I could. _I've _been the one to always demolish his pride, destroy his dignity, and purposely, too. _I _was the one that tried to break his spirit whenever I could, because I'm an inconsiderate asshole. I was the unappealing one. I was the one he wouldn't have picked because I've done nothing to make him like me.

Yet I was the one he chose to save and drag all the way to camp?

This is bad. After all that I've done to make myself an impenetrable, steely fortress. After all those years of building an inescapable prison, where all the doors are sealed shut, never to be opened again. And even after last night, after I committed to the notion of never letting another prisoner get away, steeling myself so that I won't be weak. I feel something escape its confinements, something that I've haven't seen in so long that I'm too shocked to even force it back to its cell, just standing with my mouth agape as it quickly flees my heart, coursing through my body. I'm experiencing an emotion that's never attempted a getaway ever since I built that jail. I'm experiencing an emotion—because of this boy—that I haven't felt in years:

Gratitude.

"Fuck."


	12. Hiatus

**IF THERE IS ANOTHER CHAPTER AFTER THIS, THEN SKIP THIS.**

**IF THERE ISN'T YET, THEN READ BELOW.**

* * *

I am deeply sorry if this was mistook as another chapter. Because it is not.

I must inform you that I will be on hiatus from writing for a **very long time**. I say very long because I cannot predict in the future _when _I will start to write again, so please, for me and for yourselves, do not expect anytime soon.

It is firstly because I have much work to do and much business to accomplish, and it also because there is nothing for the story right now. No spark. No inspiration.

No feeling.

I am numb to the idea of continuing because I don't know where to go. I am not frustrated, just accepting of the fact I need to finish work before I can even begin to _plan _on how the rest of the story will go. I have read many outstanding works and cannot imagine of even paling in comparison to them if I don't get the work done and have the time to _plan out how my story will go_.

I am not giving up. I am simply just taking a break at writing and giving myself less time to stress, and more time to _plan_.**  
**

Thank you for understanding and if you have any thoughts **at** **all**, please, feel more than free to tell me about them; if you want to comment on these actions, I would love to know about them; if you feel like telling me what you think about this, than by all means do.

Thank you for understanding. :)

That was the only emoticon this whole page...I am being too somber about this...


End file.
